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THE EXCEPTION 

















































THE EXCEPTION 


BY 

OLIVER ONIONS 


NEW YORK 

JOHN LANE COMPANY 


MCMXl 








Qiit- 

r, v.v‘:i^ 

J -*' 1911 




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THE EXCEPTION 


BOOK I 

COTTERDALE 

I 

T HE voice of the stream had hoarsened with the night’s 
rain, and the pools of the rocky glen, that yesterday 
had been low and translucent, were brim full, peaty-brown, 
and clouded with the fresh. Yeasty skimmings had collected 
at margins, and where the stream took a deeper plunge, 
thirty yards below where Berice Beckwith lay, the great 
spumy cheeses revolved slowly at the foot of the fall. But 
already the water was fast clearing, and through the over- 
arching oak and birch and hazel the sun was shining again. 

Near the mossy boulder on which Berice lay, a dead 
branch had lodged across a noisy rill. It had collected a 
little heap of water-rakings — mould, skeletonized leaves, 
glistening scum, and vegetable scurf. These fouled half the 
surface of the little pool above the branch ; below it the 
water made a gleaming edge, combed clear. The removal 
of the branch would have hastened considerably the purifi- 
cation of the stream. 

Berice’s hand had been idly casting fragments into the 
pool, and her eyes had followed each morsel as it had been 
caught by the current and deposited against the rotten 
branch. There was quite a little cluster of soaked potentilla 
blossoms, the tiny cup-heads of mosses, and the flowerets of 
the bedstraws. An end of twig lay to her hand now ; without 


i 


2 


THE EXCEPTION 


otherwise moving the hand she flicked it with her middle 
finger towards the pool. It was heavier, and went farther 
than the other fragments ; it struck the water at the foot of 
a twelve-inch fall, disappeared in the boiling, and bobbed up 
again a yard away. It spun for a moment where current and 
backwash met, and then, instead of descending to the minia- 
ture barrage , it moved slowly up to the fall again, again to be 
driven under. Time after time, a dozen times, it did this, 
as if guided by some unresting, invisible Hand. . . . 

Berice ’s cheek lay on the sleeve of her knitted white sweater, 
and a fold of the garment ran across her back to the hip that 
was uppermost, where it merged into the fuller roll about her 
waist. The collar of the sweater came up her throat like a 
man’s, and the spray of the stream, that swelled the lichens 
and made lush the mosses, had dimmed the thick coil of 
fair hair tucked away within it. That same spray, or some 
more secret moisture, had also made little wellings that 
filmed the light blue eyes that watched the circling twig. 

The news that had caused this brimming had come the 
previous morning, sharply accentuating the unrest of weeks. 
Even in the roundabout manner of its arrival — the postman 
had given it to a housemaid, who had passed it on to the 
housekeeper — had lain an additional twinge. Had Skire- 
thorns still been their own she and her uncle would have 
heard at least twelve hours earlier. But the new tenant 
was in the midst of his installation, knew his Cot ter dale 
and Ridsdale neighbours yet only by name, and in all prob- 
ability Berice and her uncle had been assumed to have already 
departed. Even in allowing so slight a thing to add to her 
moodiness Berice was aware that she was unreasonable to 
do so. 

Her uncle, of course, had instantly had out the trap, and 
the pair of them had driven over to Undershaws, behind the 
hill in Ridsdale. The drawn blinds, seen from the turn of 
the drive, had been confirmation enough of the news. They 
would have left again immediately, reserving their call of 
condolence for another occasion ; but while they had been 
eating the sandwiches a maid had brought on a tray, eating 
them in silence in the darkened room where the sun coming 


COTTERDALE 


3 

through the Venetian blinds made a bright ladder of light 
on the carpet, Mrs. Finch-Ommaney herself had entered. 
All at once it had seemed to Berice that her tower of prema- 
turely white hair was more nearly indicative of her age than 
her still youthful complexion. She had been composed — 
a little theatrically composed, a little insistently occupying 
the centre of the stage and claiming her effect. In reply to 
the question in Everard Beckwith’s eyes she had inclined 
her carefully dressed head : it was true. . . . Particulars ? 
No, she had had no particulars yet ; she had cabled for par- 
ticulars, but the reply had said little except that a letter was 
already on its way. — What had it been : a fall, a landslip, a 
bursting barrel ? Mrs. Finch-Ommaney did not know ; Lai 
had had three months’ shooting leave, had gone out to seek 
ovis-ammon, and this had happened on the very day before 
the end of his leave, or rather on the day before he was 
to have set off back again to his station. The shikaree 
(Hafiz, his name was, and he had accompanied Lai before, 
when he had shot those — the mounted heads of ibis and 
markhor and Thibetan gazelle that hung on the dining-room 
walls), the shikaree had returned to camp, presumably with 
. . . Mrs. Finch-Ommaney had covered her eyes with both 
plump hands, as if beseeching that they would not ask her 
to call that with which Hafiz had returned to camp ‘ her 
son.’ No, nothing else ; that was all the information to 
hand yet. — Berice and her uncle had stood with bowed heads 
before the bereft mother, and presently had moved to take 
their leave. 

“ Forgive me for not letting you know immediately,” Mrs. 
Finch-Ommaney had then said, making a slightly obvious 
magnanimity of it that even in her sorrow she could think 
of others and their affairs. “ I thought you’d already left, 
and that the new tenant was at Skirethorns.” 

Everard had replied that he was getting in now, and had 
given Mrs. Finch-Ommaney a timidly imploring look. Everard 
always took things simply, credulously, and as they appeared 
to be. 

“ And you — when are you leaving ? ” Mrs. Finch-Ommaney 
had continued, still with heroic selflessness. 


4 


THE EXCEPTION 


Everard had answered that nothing was settled yet — that 
they were seeing Mr. Emney comfortable first — it might be 
a few days or it might be a fortnight. — Berice had interposed. 

“ How’s Celia ? ” 

Then Everard had drawn a breath of relief that the un- 
natural tension had seemed to be over. At the sound of the 
name of her dead boy’s betrothed on Berice’s lips Mrs. Finch- 
Ommaney had trembled, put her hand to her bosom, and 
with the other hand had clutched at the arm Everard Beck- 
with had made haste to offer her. Gently they had led her to 
a sofa, and she had broken into a plenitude of tears. 

“ Oh, Berice, Berice ! ” she had sobbed. “ You are my 
daughter — the girl I hoped — hoped — oh, I hoped — at one 
time I even thought ” 

“ Oh, hush ! ” Berice had murmured, shocked at the 
nakedness of the confession and refusing to hear any more. 
Already Everard Beckwith had made his escape. . . . Ten 
minutes later Berice had found him waiting for her in the trap, 
pulling at his long grey moustache and regarding the foot- 
board profoundly. 

“ She’s taking it badly, poor woman,” he had sighed when 
they were half way home. 

Berice had made no reply. . . . 

All this had been yesterday. Berice had spent half the 
night at her window, listening to the sound of the rain in 
the pinewood and occupied incessantly with one thought. 
That thought was, whether Mrs. Finch-Ommaney would have 
sobbed out those broken words if she had known all. 

For seven years now her intimacy with the dead boy had 
been at an end, and nothing but his death could have brought 
it all so poignantly up again. Sitting there in the darkness 
at her open window she had lived much of those seven years 
over again. The heaviness of it all had come back to her — the 
days following the breaking-off, when she had come to herself 
again as if out of some blind trance of irresponsibility — the 
succeeding days, when half of her, defiant and self- justifica- 
tory, had warred with the other half that had more and more 
accused her — and so by stages to the days when the whole 
thing had seemed as remote and unreal as a dream of a 


COTTERDALE 


5 

previous existence. She had gone over it all again from the 
beginning, sitting there in the dark. 

She did not know even now exactly what it had been. It 
had been a sort of secret engagement, yet it had lacked the 
explicitness of an engagement. It had been a reckless plunge 
into Life, to be regularized or not at some later date. It 
had been a crude and rebellious intellectual conviction, 
coming upon her at her vernal season, unguided by any 
mother, finding a ripening word here or there in the novel- 
box, subtle urges in things which the better-disciplined would 
have shaken oh, propinquity, the hour, and folly. She had 
tried to see it all again during the night : she had failed : she 
only knew, now, that the passage of those seven years seemed 
somehow to suggest a sort of Moral Statute of Limitations 
and (to give it that name) an automatic non-suiting of Neme- 
sis. Even physically, so it was said, there no longer remained 
an atom of that old Berice Beckwith that had not been 
supplanted and renewed ; and even less than nothing, were 
that possible, did there remain of that old Berice within. 
She had long since changed her mind about those sprawling, 
untrained impulses of her youth. 

And now he was dead. . . . 

Exclusive of a period of correspondence by letter, the 
whole thing had lasted barely four months — the four months 
between Lionel Finch-Ommaney’s passing from Sandhurst 
and his attachment for a year to the Indian regiment. She 
had been eighteen months his senior, and it had been she who 
had made the running, he who had trailed a little stupidly 
after her. She had been precocious, and had considered 
herself entitled to make more than ordinary demands on 
Life ; Life, she had assumed, owed her exceptional treatment 
by reason of her being Berice Beckwith : and, vaguely 
divining that they get most who give most, she had been 
willing to give, even to the point of squandering. And four 
months had sufficed to disillusion her completely. She had 
not received in the same measure ; the revolting spirit in her 
had had to work double tides : it had not been in him to 
give as largely as she. Even when he l$d seemed to give 
he had but given her her own back again— -her own thoughts, 


6 


THE EXCEPTION 


expressed longings, gentle inventions, phrases even. In his 
deficiency Mrs. Finch-Ommaney’s wish had been frustrated ; 
and even in the interview of yesterday certain likenesses 
between the mother and the son had come out. In her heart 
she did not believe, with Everard, that Mrs. Finch-Ommaney 
was taking it insupport ably badly. She knew the strain. 
Lionel had accepted his rejection, despite his half-hearted 
protests, with ovine content. . . . 

But Mrs. Finch-Ommaney was ignorant of all this, and 
when, two years ago, Lionel had come home on leave, quite 
heart-healed, and had gone back again the betrothed of 
Celia Chester (Berice had made a prolonged visit to friends 
about that time), the mother had fretted a little (for Berice), 
rearranged her stage, and made herself potentially a grand- 
mother through a different channel. She would not have 
broken out so yesterday, Berice thought, but for some 
fundamental insufficiency, some obscure subordination of 
what was true to what was dramatically statable . . . and 
immediately she frowned, to find herself anatomizing a 
fellow-being in the unguarded hour of grief. 

Had Mrs. Finch-Ommaney known ! . . . 

But Berice had been over all this during the night, and 
weariness drives out emotion. Her thoughts turned of them- 
selves to lesser things, of which these few remaining days at 
Skirethorns provided plenty. Her uncle lingered, giving 
supervision here and there, held by that good temper of his 
that was largely inertia ; but Berice was anxious to get it 
over. The sooner the old order was completely at an end 
and the new one begun the better. Half a day would suffice 
for the packing of her own belongings. . . . 

And the emotional drop was a relief in more ways than 
one. Even Lionel Finch-Ommaney’s death might, she knew 
not exactly how, be counted among the things that brought 
relief. True, her whole nature would have revolted at the 
idea of considering Death’s dread scission for one moment 
in its aspect of timeliness or convenience ; but actually, 
practically, and emotional altitudes apart, his death did 
make things straighter. Only she knew how many times, 
in weariness and petulance and fret she had wished that 


COTTERDALE 


7 

certain things might be terminated ; well, here they were, 
terminated as far as they ever could be terminated, and there 
was nothing left but to concur. . . . Berice did concur. She 
even had a sudden, and hardly habitual, access of honesty 
with herself. She did feel lighter. There was nothing to be 
gained by denying it. It was God’s will, and she acquiesced. 
It did not occur to her just then that acquiescence in God’s 
will is a matter variable in its difficulty, the variability turning 
on the extent to which that will happens to coincide with our own. 

Nor was the sense of relief incompatible with some measure, 
yes, a large measure, of sympathy for Mrs. Finch-Ommaney. 
It even enhanced that sympathy, as if to make some obscure 
and secret amends and pay a pound over rather than half an 
ounce short. For that accident far away in Thibet, whatever 
it had been — slip of the foot, bursting barrel, the trampling 
of an infuriated animal — had laid to rest other things than 
its immediate victim. In suppressing some things it had 
allowed others to take their proper place. De mortuis . . . 
she murmured the words ... it was not merely that. It 
was not mere silence in regard to the unworthier things. 
Already things not unworthy were beginning to shine with a 
soft glamour. Lionel’s memory had a tenderness that Lionel 
himself had never known, and enough remained of the gentle 
fount whence it sprang once more to moisten Berice’s eyes 
as she gazed at the clearing stream — as she watched, through 
a bright blur, the soaked flowerets by the dead branch and 
the monotonous circuit of the twig up the backwash, down 
the fall, and up the backwash again. . . . 

Well, it was over. She thought ncfw that it had been sweet 
while it had lasted, to darling with eyes, even though the 
darlinging had been her own ; at any rate it was already 
beginning to be sweet to remember it, all purged and ideal- 
ized. One by one, as she lay gazing into the water, the 
memories returned to her — an unforgettable walk, a moving 
tone, an uncovenanted look so strangely thrilling, a reckless 
escapade of a meeting in the pinewood at dawn and a stealing 
back to the sleeping house before the morning star had paled, 
assignations at Bunny’s painting cottage up on the moor 
. . . and, after he had left, the earlier letters. . . . 


8 


THE EXCEPTION 


She remembered, too, the melancholy evening on which 
she had burnt his letters, those letters of an ardour so curiously 
kindled from her own. She had not realized then that the 
flame that had consumed them was the first refining fire of 
their intercourse, memory’s real beginning after the false 
start of facts. And now Death, the last purification, had 
come, and the Lionel chapter was closed. . . . 

But no : it was not closed if the loveliest part of it re- 
mained. It would yet end far far better than it had begun. 
Thenceforward it would be a sweet and supporting memory 
close at her heart. It would be, thenceforward, her standard 
of loveliness for all things pretending to be lovely, her touch- 
stone with which all things fresh and gay and of the day- 
spring must stand the test of comparison. This at any rate 
she would take from Skirethorns with her. And Lionel had 
had to die to make it possible. That, perhaps, was what 
poets meant by brooding on Death until they fell in love 
with it. Beyond its bitterness lay peace and light, repose 
beyond its sharpness . . . but she felt herself getting into 
an exalted mood again, and ceased to think. 

A bright ray had crept round until it rested on her cheek, 
and she moved. She sat up, and the folds of the sweater 
became a single soft roll about her waist. A mesh of subdued 
light danced about the boulder, and the little mat of flowerets 
showed dark on the lustrous pool. The end of the twig was still 
circling monotonously down the stream, up its margin, and 
down again. Her eyes rested on it, and at an idle fancy she 
smiled faintly. She knew that she had but to dislodge the 
dead branch and in a few minutes the pool would be clear 
again, even as her own life was now the clearer for the 
removal of something that had for long obstructed its 
current. . . . 

Dallyingly she put out one hand to the branch. 

She loosed one end of it, and with a plop and a gurgle 
half the mass went over the little fall. She cleared the other 
end, and, as it still stuck, pushed at it with her foot. It gave ; 
the liberated water broke into a clear musical spouting, and 
in scarce more than a minute the pebbly bottom could be 
seen, with the minnows darting across it. Berice’s bosom 


COTTERDALE 


9 

rose as if a physical weight had been lifted from it, and she 
became aware of the singing of a lark. . . . 

The new hopefulness in her breast demanded more air 
and space than were to be had in the narrow glen, and she 
rose almost blithely. Stepping from rock to rock she left 
the stream and began the ascent of a steep bank towards 
the hill-top and the sky. The sound of the stream diminished 
behind her ; the air was clear and bright, and the earth 
smoked lightly with the morning evaporation from a million 
leaves and petals and grasses. 

At the top of the hill she sat down again on a boulder of 
silvery limestone. About her were bents, with nodding hare- 
bells and potentilla, and over the pinewood below she saw 
the smoke of the Skirethorns chimneys. In her mind she saw 
the house itself — large and in ill repair, with its shabby, solid 
old furniture, its wildernesses of steep gardens, the shapes of 
trout roughly incised in its limestone cornerstones, and 
Berice’s own birthday-heights notched against the edge of 
the gun-room door. And beyond all lay the hills that guarded 
the deep Dale, scarce less loved than the house itself. 

Berice experienced no further emotion, although she knew 
that she was about to take her farewell of these things. 
It seemed fitting that all the changes should come at once. 
She sat for long, thinking nothing, feeling nothing, before 
she was aware of a step behind her and of a shadow on the 
grey-green bents. She turned. Harrison Emney, the new 
tenant, stood before her, cap in hand, dabbing his brow with 
a handkerchief. 


II 


H IS thin and poplar-like figure was clad in tweeds, not 
conspicuously new, yet lacking, as it were, that touch 
of the sun that turns the meadows to hay. Mechanically he 
glanced at the handkerchief with which he mopped his brow. 

“ Good morning, Miss Beckwith,” he said, puffing. “ How 
frantically hot ! I’m afraid I’m a little too long in the back 
to mount these hills as your splendid Dalesmen do. Five- 
nine’s the useful height for a man — not my lankiness. ...” 

It was characteristic of Harrison Emney that he made 
little modest disparagements of the good things that were his 
own. In this case his smile gave the cue that, at his hearer’s 
pleasure, his remark might be taken as pleasantly preposter- 
ous. Berice, looking away across the Dale, merely replied that 
it was hot — and steep — and that Mr. Emney’s new car would 

not be of much use up that hillside 

“ The runabout ? No, it’s hardly graded up to this. Am 
I disturbing you ? ” 

“ Oh, no.” 

He sat down by her side, mopping his brow once more and 
then putting the handkerchief into his pocket. Then he put 
his elbows on his knees, and with the fingers of his right hand 
began to make little flips on the knuckles of his left ; they 
were long and spare and reddish hands, and very carefully 
kept. Berice did not speak, and his own silence seemed, in 
some odd and negative way, to assume a degree of intimacy 
between them that made talking for talking’s sake un- 
necessary. He seemed to measure the duration of the silence 
before remarking, with an exaggerated stretching of himself : 
“ And my landlord — your uncle — how is he this morning ? ” 
Berice, hardly thinking either of her uncle or of the man 
who asked after him, replied that she hadn’t seen Everard yet 

to 


COTTERDALE 1 1 

— that she had breakfasted alone and had then come out. 
“ He may be up at the Pool,” she added. 

“Ah, yes, the Pool ; very likely ; seeing to the stocking. 
The trout came yesterday — I shall finish in the poorhouse yet, 
Miss Beckwith ! . . . But really, Mr. Beckwith’s so keen on 
the water and coverts that I think I shall have to try to get 
him to stay on as head keeper ! ” 

The smile with which he made his little jest seemed less to 
come spontaneously than to be a result of the pull of the 
muscles that surrounded his mouth. Again it pointed the 
pleasantry, and again Berice was conscious for a moment of a 
thing she had noticed before in him — a slight overdoing of 
the right thing. To call that magnificent car “ a runabout ” 
seemed, somehow, excessive modesty in possession ; and it 
would have been franker, less secretive, less Scotch (she 
applied the unreasonable adjective), had he said that he could 
really quite well afford to stock the Pool up the hill with trout 
and omitted the reference to the poorhouse. There was no 
reason why he should apologize for his wealth. She glanced 
at him. His general appearance was one of sandy irascibility, 
held well in check ; his reddish moustache was waxed, and 
the brown irises of his eyes had a hot and reddish cast ; and 
Berice, who hitherto had not spent a wonder on him, now found 
herself guessing his age to be about forty-two. He continued : 

“ No, I really don’t know how I shall manage without him, 
for I can’t make out half that Jacky and these fellows say. 
As a means of conveying anything to me their dialect is a 
distinct failure. But that’s by the way, for I hope you’re not 
thinking of leaving just yet. Pure selfishness on my part, 
Miss Beckwith, seeing what an excellent keeper I shall 
lose. . . ” 

Had he ventured to add the gallantry his eyes looked, as 
to what he would lose when Berice herself left, she would 
hardly have noticed it, for the sight of the chimney-smoke 
above the pinewood had begun to tug just a little at her heart 
again. Perhaps the proximity of the new master had some- 
thing to do with this. 

“ And, oh, that reminds me,” he continued. “ I’ve a case 
of old crockery of some sort coming to-day that I should be 


12 


THE EXCEPTION 


awfully glad to have your opinion on. I believe it’s not a bad 
lot as such things go — cheap for what it is, my agent says — 
he’s supposed to understand these things, and is honest enough 
as agents go. I think you save in the long run by dealing 
with a reliable man — fearful rascals some of them are — what’s 
that they say ? Experientia docet — I’ve been let in once or 
twice, and there’s nothing like that for opening your eyes ” 

His off-hand sentences merely deflected the current of 
Berice’s meditation slightly. For a fortnight past the arrival 
of each fresh consignment of Emney’s belongings had meant 
a rearrangement or removal of the old, and to Berice nothing 
could compensate for the changes. The Skirethorns things 
were old, but they belonged to Skirethorns. . . . She strove 
to hold off the returning ache by noting mentally that Mr. 
Emney seemed to be something of a thing-worshipper. She 
remembered that almost at their first meeting he had laugh- 
ingly confessed that he found in his pictures and porcelains 
and bric-ci-brac a sort of moral support — liked to have them 
about him — “ his household lares” he had called them, with 
the Latin word negligently dropped as if he did the honours 
of the language — and he was speaking now of a Hepplewhite 
sideboard. . . . 

“ But I really don’t know that it’s worth moving that 
magnificent old dower-chest for,” he was saying. “ The 
dower-chest’s oak, of course, and it’s merely a personal 
predilection of my own — quite indefensible, you know — that 
makes me prefer the livelier woods, rosewood and mahogany — 
a matter of taste, of course ” 

He ran on, taking, though she scarcely noticed it, a hundred 
things for granted. It was not the sound, but the sudden 
ceasing of his voice, that presently interrupted Berice’s 
meditation. She turned with a gesture of apology for her 
inattention. 

“ I beg your pardon — I’m afraid I wasn’t listening — you 
were saying something about a sideboard ? ” 

He might have replied that he had been speaking about a 
sideboard, five minutes before ; but apparently he found 
something that he considered it better worth his while to say. 
A certain physical resplendence about her, a bouncingness 


COTTERDALE 13 

almost, had taken his eye ; he had noticed the height of her 
eighteenth birthday mark on the edge of the gun-room door 
— had asked whether he might venture to ask what those 
marks were ; and she could hardly, he thought, be more than 
twenty-six now. It was on his mind that he would very much 
have liked to pass the barrier of her reticence. ... 

All at once he dropped his eyes, and a sudden consciousness 
and embarrassment showed in his manner. 

“ Do you know, Miss Beckwith, I’m afraid that after all I 
do disturb you,” he murmured, prodding at a harebell with 
his stick. 

He forced her to repeat her apology. 

“ Oh, I don’t mean just that,” he continued, digging away 
at the harebell until it was forced into the turf. “ I don’t 
mean that I’m in the way at this present moment ; I mean, 
that I disturb you by being here, in this place, at all. I’m 
afraid it’s my bad luck to be an intruder.” 

She glanced at him. 

“ Since we have to let Skirethorns it’s my uncle’s good 
luck that you did intrude,” she replied, looking away again. 

“ It’s very kind of you to put it that way,” he returned, 
selecting another harebell to prod at, “ but — all the same — 
I am an outsider here, and naturally you feel it. The whole 
thing’s probably got a little on your nerves — quite, oh, quite 
naturally. Of course, in the case of my good landlord — whom 
I should like to call my friend also ” 

Suddenly he stopped. Berice had again turned her eyes on 
him, at first uncomprehendingly, then steadily and inquir- 
ingly. She really did not quite understand him. In speaking 
of the thing at all he was rather rubbing it in ; not that it 
greatly mattered one way or the other, but . . . another 
man, she thought, would quietly have taken things as they 
stood, and have accepted the hostship of the house for which 
he paid rent without further remark. His slight eagerness to 
reveal himself puzzled her ; she was perfectly incurious about 
him ; and it was certainly without reflection, and perhaps 
still under the influence of her emotion of an hour before, 
that, seizing on a word for lack of anything better, she inquired 
in a detached voice : 


14 


THE EXCEPTION 


“ Why will you call my uncle ‘ your landlord ’ ? ” 

^The careless words had not escaped her before she was 
suddenly conscious of what she had done. She bit her lip as 
the explanation of it all flashed upon her. She had noticed it 
before, of course, taking him in much as she had taken in the 
car and the sideboards and the packing-cases that had come 
addressed to him ; but she had accounted him, like them, 
merely as something new and to be seen no more after a week 
or two, and had gone on to think of more interesting things. 
She now reddened like a peony for what she had said. 

“ I mean — I mean — of course he is that,” she stammered. 

This was worse, and she stopped again, red to her blonde 
nape. . . , She could only hope secretly that he was as thick- 
skinned as he seemed to be. 

He was not. His face, too, had turned to a harsh and 
painful red. The thing was annoyingly trifling ; had she not 
drawn attention to it by suddenly checking herself it might 
have passed unnoticed ; but it held more than a trifle of morti- 
fication for him. She did not know that it struck at so much 
that he had laboriously built up, piece by piece. She did not 
know— she was just learning— that it seemed to suggest that 
something was a building, and not a growth. The man who, 
doing nothing, would yet have it taken for granted that if he 
did something it would be infallibly the right thing, makes 
innumerable falsifications by doing one wrong one. Breeding 
may be manifested largely by negations, but it is not itself 
negative. A thing is not negative when the breach of it is 
everything. . . . They sat on the boulder side by side, both 
ashamed, he to have had his guard shot under, she not to 
have seen at once and schooled herself better. 

And even then a little unguardedly generous impulse pre- 
vented her from seeing that the less that was said the sooner 
the thing would be mended. 

" 1>m sorry,” she breathed, the blush still bright on the 
cheek above the white sweater. 

That more irascible red was slowly fading from his own 
face. He was gazing down between his feet, and the toes of 
his boots rose and fell softly. Feeling herself unobserved, 
Berice stole a sidelong glance at him, and saw how near his 


COTTERDALE 


15 

vanity, if it was that, she had come. She could almost have 
put a soothing hand on his sleeve. Berice Beckwith frequently 
made faults ; she always atoned for them tenfold. 

“ Forgive me,” she breathed again, again averting her eyes. 

Still Emney did not reply. Not the prick she had given 
him, but the stab she might have inflicted, held him silent. 
And more than the wound was that she should have seen that 
he was wounded. He was as thin-skinned as she had hoped 
he might be callous. She had not only caught him with the 
social primer in his hand, but he had let her see that he 
recognized that she had caught him. . . . 

But perhaps, he found himself thinking, she had not seen 
that. Perhaps his sensitiveness had been quicker than her 
perspicacity. If so, he was making an admission even now. 
It was not Harrison Emney’s way to make admissions, and 
already he was recovering the mastery of himself. He had 
wished to penetrate her reserve ; well, he had his wish. 
Whatever it might be necessary to cede or defend later, for 
the present he had an advantage. He was his ordinary colour 
again now, and the hot and shrewd brown eyes under the 
slightly wrinkled lids that met Berice’s blue ones had the 
humouring and masterful expression of the man who has a 
matter well in hand. 

“ Forgive ? ” he repeated slowly, sitting upright again. 
“ Forgive what, Miss Beckwith ? What’s this I’m asked to 
forgive ? ” 

She was silenced, seeing too late, as she ever did see, that 
it would have been better to have let not-very-well alone. 
He pressed his advantage. 

“If there’s to be forgiveness, it is I who should ask it,” he 
said, smiling. “ Here I come, an interloper in a place where 
you and yours have struck roots — ” (Berice wondered why 
he would still linger on this perilous ground), “ — I turn the 
place upside down and ask you to take a spectator’s interest 
in the process — I go meddling with things that must in a way 
be sacred to you — and Miss Beckwith begs my pardon ! ’Pon 
my word, it’s rather comical ! ” 

< Whatever else he was or was not, he was readier and 
quicker to seize a tactical advantage than she ; but Berice, 


1 6 THE EXCEPTION 

seeing the instantaneousness with which he had closed 
up again that minute chink in the exterior he presented to 
the world, merely noted tardily that he was no less sensitive. 
The combination, now that she did give it attention, was 
rather interesting, and explained the fondness of the senior 
partner of the house of Wade, Sons, and Emney, bankers, for 
bibelots and bric-&-brac. He had risen from the boulder, 
seeing her rise, and apparently proposed to accompany her 
down to the house ; and — whether from lack of tact or in 
order to fence himself still further she could not discover — 
he again approached the hazardous subject. 

“ Seriously, Miss Beckwith,” he said, “ I’m not quite 
sure whether you’re altogether fair to me. You see, merely 
as a new-comer I’m at a disadvantage here. It’s not my 
fault, and — if I may say so — it stands between us. You’d 
resent anybody else just as much, you know, but here it is, 
all visited on luckless me. It’s not quite fair, is it ? ” 

He merely puzzled her again. She did not see how any- 
thing could stand between where no relation, or almost no 
relation, existed. But it didn’t matter. And perhaps from his 
point of view it — whatever “ it ” was — was not quite fair. 
Certainly, though it was the last thing she had intended, and 
would hardly happen again in ten years, a word too much had 
escaped her, and perhaps she owed him something for that. 
To be quit of the debt she pointed out to him, as they de- 
scended towards the pinewood, this and that feature of the 
Dale below — the path over the opposite hill to Ridsdale, 
Cotterdale village a couple of miles away, and below it, near 
the bridge where Ridd and Cotter met, the disused mill that 
was to have made her uncle’s fortune but had somehow failed 
to do so. Emney expressed a curiosity to see this mill ; and 
Berice completed her reparation by promising to show it to him. 


Ill 


T HE trout pool lay four hundred leet above the house, at 
the edge of the heather, not far from where the chain of 
horse-shoe butts began that stretched for a couple of miles 
to the confines of Sir John Hartopp’s land ; and it was there, 
that same evening, that Berice and her uncle stood looking 
across the water. The clumps of heather were turned to a 
rich low bronze ; over a roller-like heave of the moor the 
flushed fell-tops across the Dale could be seen ; and the Pool 
was an oval well of pure light, immeasurably deep as the 
zenith it reflected. 

At the beginning of the ascent Everard Beckwith had put 
his briar pipe into the pocket of his greatly-loved old shooting- 
jacket ; he drew it forth again, slowly charged it from his 
tattered old pouch, and the little inverted flame of his match 
burned clear in the Pool below. The illumination showed 
also, very minute, in his puckered blue eyes. He was big 
and slow-moving ; years of pottering about in all weathers, 
deeply interested in such matters as gate-fastenings, in- 
secure branches, and the condition of walls and hedges, had 
tanned his face and wrinkled his neck like those of a field 
labourer ; and they had also left him with an intermittent 
rheumatism, against which he carried a raw potato in his 
breeches pocket. When he spoke it was in a rich and lazy 
and contented voice. 

“ They’re rising well to-night, Berice,” he remarked, as 
the tranquil surface of the Pool was broken by the plash of a 
leaping fish. “ Awfully still up here.” 

“ Jolly,” Berice murmured absently, her eyes on the 
widening ripples. 

“ Look, there’s a big chap. . . . We put four hundred in 
to-day. I must say Emney’s doing the place uncommonly 

17 


2 


i8 


THE EXCEPTION 


well. He could hardly do more if I’d sold the place to him, 
as he wanted me to. But we can’t sell Skirethorns, eh, 
Berice ? ” 

Berice made no reply, and for a minute they stood watching 
the water and the darkening leagues of heather. 

“ Very hospitable to ourselves, too,” Everard Beckwith 
continued. “ Glad of somebody to talk to just at first, I 
suppose. But Hartopp and Knowles will be looking in on 
him soon , . . seems a pleasant sort of chap ... he ought 
to get along all right with them . . . ” he drawled equably 
along. 

“Yes,” Berice replied ; and then asked suddenly, “ When 
are we leaving ? ” 

Everard took his leisure to think, watching his tobacco 
smoke that curled in the golden light. 

“ Oh, we must clear out pretty soon, but we can’t decently 
just this minute, with him spreading himself so on the place,” 
he said. “ There are half a dozen odds and ends to settle 
yet, and he was speaking this afternoon of the other ponds 
— you know — down there — the old scheme ” 

Berice looked at her uncle quickly and suspiciously. 

“ What ? . . . Ev, you don’t mean that you’ve been 
talking to him about that old jacket ? ” 

“ The ponds ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

Everard blew another cloud of smoke out over the Pond. 

“ Why not ? Same old jacket, Berice. His suggestion, 
of course, not mine. I’d happened to get those old drawings 
we made, you and Bunny and poor Lionel and I, and he came 
in and wanted to know what they were — I must say he 
seemed rather taken with the notion. And when you come 
to think of it it’s really not half a bad idea. As he said, it 
is the dickens of a pull up to the top here — you remember 
what a job we had to get up the last skating. ...” 

In explanation of the word “ jacket ” as Berice and her 
uncle used it, it may be said that it was a term Berice had 
applied to any project of her uncle’s that resembled, from 
the point of view of practical usefulness, the skinning of a 
flint to make a jacket for a gooseberry. Everard Beckwith 


COTTERDALE 


19 

had a genius for these jackets. The plans he had elaborated 
a dozen years before for the reopening of the lead mines on 
the moor for the purpose of extracting silver from the baser 
product had been a jacket ; an attempt to grow corn on a 
piece of cleared land below the stream had been a jacket ; and 
it had been a jacket when he had built the mill by Cotterdale 
Bridge for the revival of the old Cotterdale homespun indus- 
try. Jackets of one sort and another in the past had been 
largely contributory to the present letting of Skirethorns 
to a stranger. The jacket of which they now spoke was the 
old proposal for the making of a pond, or rather of a couple 
of ponds, much further down the hill and more easily acces- 
sible from the house. 

“ It’s really half done without a spade being put to it,” 
Everard continued cheerfully. “ There’s sixty yards, nothing 
but rush, and a good clay bottom. I’ve shown you many a 
time the patch of mist that always hangs over it at night. 
A little digging, and then turn the stream. ...” 

The kind, impracticable eyes seemed to see the jacket 
already finished, somewhere away in the clear twilight. . . . 

But Berice spoke with decision. 

“ Ev, he mustn’t be allowed to do it.” 

He gave her a questioning look. 

“ Why not, my dear ? It would really be very well worth 
doing — besides being a rather interesting job ” 

“ So were the others, and you know how they ended. We 
reckoned up that it would cost quite two hundred pounds. 
We can’t afford that for a jacket, and we’re not so poor yet 
that we're going to let a stranger pay for it. Besides, you’d 
never leave till it was finished.” 

With an equable sigh Everard relinquished the jacket. 

“ Oh, all right, Berice. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps the 
corn-growing was rather a sunbeams-from-cucumbers sort of 
idea. But I still believe the homespun business might be 
made to go. The fact is, Berice,” he expounded cheerfully, 
“ we’ve got to wake up— our sort, I mean. We’re getting 
left nowadays. Look at this man Emney, now : a banker, 
in the thick of things, money spinning about him all the time 
— always within sound of the chink of it ; he's the successful 


20 


THE EXCEPTION 


modern type, and it’s just rubbish of us to pretend that we 
wouldn’t do the same thing if we could. No. Feudalism’s 
dead. I’m sorry myself for some things, but there it is. Of 
course, there’s the fag-end of a sort of traditional pull yet, 
but we must use it — wake up, in fact. There, now ! ” — he 
extended his hand in pleased triumph as a sheep raised its 
head from a clump of heather and gave a call — “ there’s an 
instance of what I mean. Wool. There’s wool, here on 
these moors ; the labour hasn’t all gone off to the towns 
yet — there’s Joe, and young Brooke, and those two lads of 
Harry Dean’s,” — he spoke as if he hadn’t by any means 
named all the labour that was even yet to be had — “ and for 
the market, what I have in my mind is one of these good , 
small businesses, you know, with the right sort of people,” — 
puff, puff — “ such as this man Emney,” — puff, puff — “ who’ll 
pay thirty shillings as soon as a guinea — and as you know, 
a little extra in the price makes all the difference between a 
profit and a loss ” — puff, puff, puff. . . . 

“The homespun jacket, in short,” Berice summarized; 
and again they watched, without speaking, the rising of the 
fish. 

But suddenly Everard stood peering under his hand across 
the glowing heather. 

“ Hallo, who’s that ? ” he said. ...” If Bunny wasn’t 
abroad I should have said it was Bunny. . . . It’s somebody 
with Bunny’s dog, anyway. ...” 

In the rich hazy light an approaching figure could be seen. 
Suddenly Berice gave a call, and a red setter bounded through 
the heather and leaped and barked about her. 

“ It’s Bunny right enough. . . .” 

“ Down, Nell ! . . .” 

“ Yes, it’s Bunny— and it’s good-bye to Jim Bright’s 
chances of winning the fell-race this Feast. . . . Hallo, 
Bunny, what are you doing here ? We thought you w^ere 
painting in Paris.” 

Bunny was Bernal Hartopp, Sir John Hartopp’s son. 
He was a stockishly but springily built young man of thirty- 
three, and in Ridsdale and Cotterdale, where the most that 
is ever said for that form of passing the time that consists 


COTTERDALE 


21 


of the putting of paint upon canvas is that it is difficult to 
see what harm it does, he was known as the best sprinter and 
jumper in the neighbourhood, and the only man capable of 
beating Jim Bright in the yearly race up and down the Fell 
where Ridsdale and Cotterdale met. Only a pair of French- 
made boots indicated that he had recently arrived from 
abroad ; and the evident capacity for quick and supple 
movement of the feet and ankles within them only made the 
more marked the slowness and embarrassment of Bunny’s 
speech. He gave Berice a short “ How d’you do ? ” and then 
turned to her uncle. 

“ My father tells me I only just catch you,” he said. 

“ A few days yet, perhaps — not much longer,” Everard 
replied, solicitously examining the fingers that Bunny’s 
handshake had crushed. “ I hope you don’t shake hands 
with women like that, Bunny.” 

“He’s Emney the banker, isn’t he ? ” 

“Yes. Do you know him ? ” 

“No. I’ve only heard of him as a buyer — of pictures and 
so on. He knows Keigwyn and Bartholomew and that lot. 
I hope he doesn’t bring ’em down here ; if he does I shall 
clear out again.” 

Everard Beckwith laughed. 

“ Two of a trade, Bunny, eh ? What a jealous lot you 
artists seem to be ! Well, well. ... Of course, you’ve heard 
of poor Lionel ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Very sad. An awful blow to Mrs. Finch-Ommaney.” 

“I’m afraid so,” said Bunny. 

“ And to Celia too, poor girl.” 

Bunny did not reply. He seemed even more than usually 
parsimonious of his words. A minute had passed before he 
made a slow, careful, and for him a lengthy pronouncement. 

“ I expect when the truth’s known we shall find he’d his 
own carelessness to thank. There never was such a careless 
young beggar — threw himself and his things about anyhow. 
I remember when he used to come up to my painting cottage 
over there to read : cartridges among my paint tubes, his 
* Minor Tactics ’ turned into a fly-book, and letters and 


22 


THE EXCEPTION 


papers all over the place. I used to pitch into him about it. 
Of course, it didn’t matter . . . there. . . 

He stopped again. Bunny very quickly talked himself to 
a standstill. 

Berice stood a little apart, playing with the ears of the 
setter, trying not to admit to herself that the way in which 
Bunny talked only to her uncle was rather marked. She was 
fond of Bunny, but it was a long time now since Bunny had 
shown himself very fond of her. For the last year or two, 
whenever he had gone off on his wanderings, he had not 
taken the trouble to seek her out to say good-bye to her, and 
now that he was back again he all but ignored her. She 
fancied somehow that Bunny would talk more freely were 
she out of the way. 

“ Have you come back to run at the Feast, Bunny ? ” she 
called out presently. 

“Not specially for that,” Bunny replied, turning his head 
for a moment. 

“ Shall you run ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Well, we shan’t see you if you do,” she persisted. 

“ I suppose not.” 

His brevity amounted to surliness. Berice bit her lip, and 
then stretched herself. Very well — if he didn’t wish to talk 
to her he needn’t. 

“ I’m going down, Ev,” she announced. “ I suppose you’re 
stopping a bit ? ” 

“ A little while. I don’t feel like turning in yet.” 

“ Good night, then. Good night, Bunny.” 

“ ’Night,” said Bunny ; and in a minute or two Berice 
had disappeared over the brow. The two men stood side by 
side, smoking. 

Presently Everard spoke. 

“ Why shall you clear out if these fellows you spoke of 
come ? ” he asked. “ You’re always coming back and clear- 
ing out again nowadays.” 

Bunny looked at the ground. 

“ Who ? . . . Oh, the fellows I was speaking of : Bartholo- 
mew and Keigwyn ! Because I simply can’t stand ’em, I 


COTTERDALE 


23 

suppose. Keigwyn’s a clever painter, and as low a devil as 
you’d find. Bartholomew’s a poet, and I know nothing about 
him except that he’s a Jew and I don’t like him. I don’t 
know how much Emney knows about ’em : I suppose they’re 
on their best behaviour when there’s a buyer about.” 

Evprard laughed. 

“ H’m ! Well, you seem a queer crew. . . . The trout 
look well, don’t they ? They’re Emney’s putting in. I 
suppose you don’t care to come down and see him before 
your father’s called ? ” 

“No, I think not, thanks,” Bunny replied, filling his pipe 
again. 

Berice’s guess, that Bunny would probably talk more 
freely after she had left, seemed on the point of being ful- 
filled. He was big with morose meditation now. He moved 
the French boots this way and that among the heather, 
seemed on the point of breaking out, checked himself, and 
then did break out. 

“ If you’ve a minute,” he said stammeringly ; “ it won’t 
take long — there’s something I — I should like to ask 
you.” 

“No time like the present, Bunny,” said Everard con- 
tentedly. “ What is it ? ” 

“ It’s about — it’s about young Lionel.” 

“ Oh ? . . . What about him ? ” Everard asked, suddenly 
more attentive. 

“You heard what I said just now — about his being care- 
less and all that ” 

“ Yes,” Everard prompted, as Bunny stopped again. 

“ Well,” Bunny blurted out, “ well . . . well, he was. 
Beastly careless. I’ve been putting my cottage straight for 
work this afternoon, and there’s heaps of his stuff there 
yet ... I found a lot that must be years old, stowed away in a 
bag. Of course, the place is kept locked, nobody ever goes in, 
and it really doesn’t matter . . . and as far as that goes I haven’t 
fairly looked at the stuff myself yet . . . but this is what I want 
to ask you : You don’t think, do you, that when I do straighten 
up I oughtn’t to — well, to use my discretion, in case . . . 
supposing there should happen, that is— not that I’ve really 


24 THE EXCEPTION 

any reason to think so, you understand, but you never know 
. . . and it can’t possibly do any good to leave stuff about. 

Everard Beckwith pulled at his moustache. 

“ I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you, Bunny,” he said 
slowly. 

“ What I mean is,” Bunny ploughed on, “ that — well, he 
never thought when he went away the last time that it 
would end like this. If I were to go out suddenly like that 
... we all have private things, you know ...” 

Everard’s face had become continuously graver as Bunny 
had floundered on. Again he dragged at his moustache. 

“ Do you mean poor Lionel owed money ? ” he asked, as 
Bunny again came to a standstill. 

Into Bunny’s eyes came a quick look of gratitude that the 
older man had done nothing whatever to deserve. He 
caught eagerly at the suggestion. 

“ Well, say he did. It isn’t telling tales — to you — but I 
know for a fact that he dropped quite a lot over one Cam- 
bridgeshire. It doesn’t matter now. What I really want to 
know is whether you think it would do any harm just to 
— tidy up a bit. It’s been rather on my mind, and you’re 
older than I ” 

Then there rose between Everard Beckwith’s eyes and the 
darkening moor a picture — a picture of a darkened room, 
with a ladder of sunlight lying across the carpet, and a grief- 
stricken woman with towering cendre hair whom he had sprung 
forward to save from falling. He, too, in his plain way, 
thought of things of which Death is the termination — care- 
lessness, folly, rashness, sin. More than once he had sus- 
pected that Lionel had gambled ; and no good end could be 
served by remembering it now. There was Celia to consider 
too. ... An empty sucking sound came from his pipe. He 
turned to Bunny. 

“ I see,” he said quietly. 

“ And you’d ? ” Bunny asked, with curious eagerness. 

“ I think I’d — do as you suggest.” 

“ Burn things, if I think it’s necessary ? 

“ Yes.” 

Again Bunny gave him the grateful look. 


COTTERDALE 


25 

“ I’m glad you think so. No good the other way — not a 
bit of good — no good at all. . . . Going down ? I’ll walk 
with you as far as the wood ” 

Half-way to the wood Everard gave a deep sigh in the 
darkness. 

“ Poor Lai ! ” he murmured. 

Bunny’s face, could it have been seen, would have shown 
far less than Everard Beckwith’s of either sympathy or 
gentleness. 


IV 


H ARRISON EMNEY reminded Berice of her promise to 
show him the mill by the bridge by remarking tenta- 
tively, two days later, shortly after breakfast, that, of course, 
any other day would do equally well for the expedition. . . . 
Berice instantly professed herself at his service. He made 
a deprecating gesture — wouldn’t hear of it — had meant no 
hint . . . with the result that at half-past ten they were 
taking the steep path down the plantation that cut off quite 
a quarter of a mile of drive. Emney appeared, by turns, 
a little eager to talk and a little inclined to drop into pro- 
tracted silences ; and he excused the jerkiness of his mood 
by a jesting remark about “ never being himself till lunch- 
time.” By and by he had found a safe subject for talk in 
the errand that had brought them out. 

“ I was always under the impression,” he said, as he fol- 
lowed her down the rough path, sometimes starting forward 
to put a branch aside for her, “ that this hand- weaving was 
done in the cottages, and brought to the mill only to be dyed 
or finished, or whatever it was called.” 

So it had been ; but it seemed to Berice that the admission 
would have involved a criticism of her uncle’s ideas of busi- 
ness which she did not wish to make. She answered evasively 
that the cloth had been sent elsewhere to be dyed, but that 
the mill had a special adjunct for fulling. “ We’ll go this 
way,” she added ; and he held the gate open for her to pass 
out. They took the road that follows the Cotter, now ap- 
proaching its banks, now leaving it to wind among its shallows 
a quarter of a mile away. Presently, when he had fallen into 
her stride, he found himself mentally remarking that it 
would do him no harm were he to walk rather more frequently 
at her pace. . . . 


26 


COTTERDALE 


27 

It was as they were passing under a bank of elders that 
Emney cleared his throat apologetically, and again hoped 
that he was not trespassing on her leisure and good nature. 

“ I’ve a reason for mentioning it,” he said. “ It was aw- 
fully good of you to let me chatter to you the other morning, 
for I know now how I must have disturbed you. . . . Very 
sad, very sad. If I’d had the least idea then I wouldn’t have 
bothered you for the world. It came of my being a stranger, 
you see. . . 

Berice looked at him for a moment before she quite under- 
stood ; then his meaning occurred to her, and she looked 
away again. 

“ I suppose he was a great friend of yours ? ” Emney con- 
tinued by and by, in a subdued voice. 

Berice replied that she and Lionel Finch-Ommaney had 
known one another since childhood. He nodded sympa- 
thetically. 

“ Very sad, very sad. ... He leaves a mother and a 
fiancee, I’m told ? ” 

“ Both.” 

“ And so young ! Very, very sad. Joe Warry told me. A 
fine young fellow, Joe says ” 

Berice murmured something, and then suddenly length- 
ened her stride a little. The quickening of the pace served 
the purpose for which it was designed ; Emney was a little 
put to it to hold his own, and very little further talk passed 
between them until they reached the bridge. 

The mill, a long, chapel-like building with tall round- 
topped windows, lay along the opposite bank of the river, 
with the wheel-house forming an angle at the lower end of it. 
The stream had been partly banked to make a dam, and at 
the other end of the narrow stone footway stood the care- 
taker’s cottage. The caretaker himself, a small wrinkled 
man of fifty, in a pair of Everard Beckwith’s cast-off breeches 
that reached almost to his shoulder-blades, was crossing the 
mill-yard with a bucket, and he turned, hearing Berice’s 
call above the rushing of the mill-race. 

“ That’s Rufus Kershaw,” Berice said to Emney. “ He’s 
not very much liked since he ran the water off from under 


28 


THE EXCEPTION 


the ice one winter when they were skating. . . . Get the 
key, Rufus, and come and show Mr. Emney round the 
mill.” 

The caretaker set down his bucket, disappeared into his 
cottage, and presently reappeared with the key. He crossed 
the yard and opened a door under an outstanding crane-arm, 
and they entered the mill. 

Harrison Emney had enjoyed his rather breathless walk ; 
he anticipated a no less enjoyable walk back; and he was 
quite well-disposed towards the looms that had furnished 
the occasion. These stood, a dozen of them, each as large 
as a cottage room, six of a side down the large mill-chamber ; 
and, as well as he could distinguish in the half-light that 
came in at the villainously grimy, round-topped windows, 
one of them was kept in order for purposes of demonstration. 
Rufus had already placed himself on the seat of this, and was 
well into the recital, in barbarous dialect, that brought him 
in stray shillings from visitors. 

“ These is t’ looms,” his jargon ran. “ T’ galley-baulk o’ 
this ’un were what owd Webb hinged hissen on — ye’ll see 
t’ heuk o’ t’ither side. T’ sweeads is ash, thro’ Ridsdale Top, 
and them’s t’ heealds i’ them seeks. These is t’ truddles, and 
t’ shuttle goes i’ t’ box theere. Yon’s what they call t* 
dolly-box ; ye’ll see t’ dollies ditherin’ up an’ down in a 
minute. They niver warked of a Monday — t’ weyvers, ye 
knaw — that wor’ t’ drying-off day ' an’ they livvered in of a 
Friday. . . 

It was Berice who laughed the first, at the dismay on her 
companion’s face. 

“ I suppose that’s a failure too, as a means of conveying 
anything to you ? ” she remarked, remembering that he had 
said that the speech of the comparatively civilized keepers 
had puzzled him. 

“ Please pity me, and translate,” he implored. . . . “ Well,” 
he added, when she had picked the kernel out of the shell of 
Rufus’s dialect, “ Bartholomew warned me that if I came 
here I should go back to the brutish state. I begin to see 
what he means.” 

She asked who Bartholomew was. 


COTTERDALE 29 

“ Bartholomew ? The poet ? Haven’t you read his 
Aubade ? ” 

“I’m afraid not.” 

“Nor the Gestes Paresseuses ? ” 

“ No. I suppose I’m in the brutish state too.” 

“ Oh,” he exclaimed, “ you must let me lend them to you ! 
They’re good — quite good. They’re in English, of course, 
but he’s had the happy idea to go back to the Provencal 
dawn for his titles and inspirations. ‘ Dews of the land 
where Dante lay exiled ’ — that’s from his Val d’Enfer, I 
think. Oh, the Aubade' s full of romance ; do let me lend it 
to you ; and if at any time you should care to meet Bartholo- 
mew himself ...” 

Berice replied that for the present she would commit 
herself no further than to read his book, and added that in 
the meantime, since he found Rufus on the hand-loom so 
little intelligible, she would show him the mill herself. 

He asked no better. His first glance round that tomb of 
Everard’s hopes had shown him the futile experiment it all 
was and the nature of the brain of the man who had hoped 
for anything from it ; and a smile twitched about his lips. 
So much for his landlord’s notions of modern business ! As 
for this large, fair, ripe, handsome niece of his, so she but 
showed him round she might talk of antiquated cloth-pro- 
cesses or of whatever else she pleased. The bright hair 
under her shallow hat of straw seemed, in that dingy, cob- 
webby barn of a place, to gather and hold the light like a 
primrose in the dusk ; the thinness of her simple blouse — 
she wore neither cloak nor jacket — irresistibly attracted his 
eyes ; and a fresh and natural savour seemed to hang about 
her. He had been a busy man all his life ; but he had worked 
always to an end that was something more than business ; 
and he was rich, and barely forty-three. . . . The smile still 
lingered about his mouth. . . . 

Looking up, she misinterpreted his smile. She had been 
continuing that which Rufus had begun ; suddenly she 
stopped. The faintest trace of pique showed in her next 
words. 

“ Of course, it didn’t pay,” she remarked, as if she made 


THE EXCEPTION 


30 

him a present of that. He might also gather, if he wished, 
that she did not consider the last word had been spoken 
when it had been shown that it had not paid. 

“ Eh ? I beg your pardon. . . 

“ And,” she continued quickly, betraying the faith in 
jackets that lurked obscurely in her own blood, “ it is a 
fact that they’ve tried all manner of substitutes for the old- 
fashioned natural teasel- thistle, and haven’t found a me- 
chanical thing that will really do.” 

Only for a moment did he seem puzzled ; the next he had 
made a guess at her meaning. She had been speaking of 
teasel-thistles — whatever they were. . . . 

“ Ah, yes,” he nodded, “ for the cloth ; I see ; but really 
this is exceedingly technical. However, perhaps it won’t seem 
so far above my head when we’ve seen the rest of the mill. ...” 

“ You needn’t wait, Rufus,” said Berice ; “I’ll bring the 
key when we’ve finished.” 

She began to pass along between the dusty looms, ex- 
plaining as she went the obsolete economy of the mill. 

He followed her, asking questions from time to time with 
his lips, and hearing replies with his ears ; but he thought of 
nothing so little as of the subject in hand. If once or twice 
the amused smile again played about his mouth, he was 
careful that its criticism of her uncle should be made only 
when her back was turned. He owed that smile, however, 
to his own keen business intelligence. . . . 

Presently they left the looms and passed to the fulling- 
shed that ran at right-angles to the river. 

“Then they brought the cloth here”; she continued her 
explanation, pausing before the first of a row of stable-like 
stalls through which ran a long trough, with shafting above 
for the setting in motion of certain heavy stampers of timber. 
“ These are the stocks. The trough was filled with water, 
and then the new cloth was pounded about. — That’s the 
wheel, out at the end there. — They’ve rather an expressive 
proverb about the stocks hereabouts, by the way. ‘ A nail 
in the stocks ’ means a person, or a thing either, I suppose, 
that makes mischief — for if a nail got in here it ruined the 
cloth, you see ” 


COTTERDALE 


3i 

“ Most expressive, most expressive ! ” Emney murmured 
again, once more allowing his eyes to stray over her. 
He was becoming more taken with each moment that 
passed. 

In this part of the building her appearance was, indeed, 
positively radiant. The whole of the end of the shed stood 
open to the river, and the sunlight, mirrored upwards from the 
running water, made a ceaseless running and rippling of light 
among the grimy rafters overhead. Tall weeds choked the 
mechanism of the partly seen water-wheel, and in its motion- 
less boxes grew grass and groundsel and dandelions. Birds 
sang, the river made a pleasant sound, and the greenish 
light transmitted through leaves ivoried Berice’s throat and 
gave a cooler cast to her browned cheeks. Emney was 
sensitively alive to all this. His nature had that turning 
towards beauty that follows no known law of birth or breed- 
ing or education ; an urging towards actual possession was 
involved in this sense ; and his conviction of Berice’s de- 
sirableness was a thing that, unless he crushed it, which he 
saw no reason to do, might, he foresaw, very quickly run 
away with him. He had dreamed long of the day when he 
should allow himself to be run away with thus. . . . She 
was a wellnigh perfect piece. As he looked at her it was as 
if the same impulse that had led him into the studios of 
artists and the houses of dealers worked in him again here in 
this ridiculous mill. . . . 

As he listened and questioned mechanically, not ceasing 
to admire her, a small accident stood his friend. Again, as 
before, she let fall an inadvertency. Some remark about a 
‘ jacket ’ escaped her. 

“ A ‘ jacket ’ ? What’s that ? ” he asked. 

She was inwardly a little vexed. 

“ A scheme — any rather harebrained project,” she an- 
swered, not insupportably anxious to admit him to the 
intimacies of the family language. “ It’s merely a rather 
silly expression.” 

“ But why ‘ jacket ’ ? ” 

For a fraction of time she hesitated ; then she remembered 
that the more quickly she explained the less significance the 


THE EXCEPTION 


32 

trifle was likely to have. Briefly she enlightened him. He 
smiled and nodded. 

“ What friends you and your uncle seem to be ! ” he re- 
marked. “I’ve heard you call him ‘ Ev.’ You’ve no idea 
how jolly that sounds to me ; there’s been so little of any- 
thing of the sort in my life, you see. ... I wonder if I could 
ask you something quite personal without offending you ? ” 

Berice asked what that was. 

“ Please take it quite harmlessly. It’s about you and your 
uncle. What are you going to do ? ” 

She considered for a moment, and then saw no reason why 
she should not answer him in detail. She did so, a little 
punctiliously. 

“ My uncle will probably go to London — for a time at 
any rate. There are several people I myself could go to, but 
I don’t feel like singing for my supper just now. So I shall 
probably go and stay for a little while with some people called 
Tracy, in Lincolnshire, and then go on to the Howitts, neigh- 
bours of theirs. After that I shall probably join my uncle.” 

He was on the point of expressing a hope that all this was 
not to begin immediately, but thought better of it. Per- 
haps he checked himself the more readily that he saw that 
she was on the point of speaking again, and was apparently 
a little embarrassed at something. The colour in her cheeks 
had even deepened slightly. Then suddenly she looked him 
frankly in the face and proceeded to make another impulsive 
mistake. 

“ Since we’re asking questions, there’s something 1 should 
very much like to ask you she said. “ My uncle tells me 
you’re thinking of making the new ponds. I do hope you 
won’t.” 

He was standing with one foot raised on the trough timbers. 
A shred of cobweb on his neat hopsack trousers engaged his 
attention for a moment. When he had removed it he straight- 
ened himself. 

“ Oh,” he asked slowly, giving her her look back again. 
“ Why ? ” 

It was she who dropped her eyes first, suddenly confused 
and enlightened. This time there was no doubt about the 


COTTERDALE 33 

deepened colour of her cheeks ; it spread to the greenish- 
brown ivory of her neck. She knew from that look of his that 
he would make the ponds. He would make twenty ponds 
if by doing so he could delay the departure of his two guests. 
He had summed Everard up with fine accuracy, and, twice 
helped by accidents, had now outwitted herself — had put 
upon her a responsibility she could not assume — that of 
naming to him his own thoughts. And knowing this, she 
must appear not to know it. Again she was mortified by a 
trifle. 

“ It’s only another jacket,” she murmured with downcast 
eyes. 

But he would not allow this. He smiled reassuringly. 
His manner mitigated his own advantage. 

“ Oh, pardon me,” he protested, “ a really serviceable 
idea this time, if I may say so ! You must allow me to be 
the judge. . . . Now all this,” with a wave of his hand he 
indicated the dusty apparatus of the fulling-mill, “I’m 
bound to admit that this does distinctly resemble what you 
call a jacket. Out of date. It belongs to the Middle Ages, of 
course. I really don’t think Mr. Beckwith was wisely ad- 
vised when he undertook this ; as a proposition in modern 
business I wouldn’t take it as security for fifty pounds. 
But the ponds are a different thing altogether. That would 
be money very well laid down, and if I were your uncle I 
should make new kitcnen premises also. Has he ever lost a 
tenant on account of the kitchens, by the way ? ” 

It was a guess, but it served ; Everard had, in fact, lost 
two chances before coming to terms with Emney himself. 
“ Voild ! ” the banker’s gently bland shrug seemed to say. . . . 
“ It doesn’t matter much in my case, because I’m a bachelor,” 
he added, looking straight at her ; “ but I give you my word, 
Miss Beckwith, that I shouldn’t entertain this other idea for 
a moment except for my own personal convenience. ...” 

If there was an assumption in every word he uttered, he 
spoke none the less with pellucid reason. Any unhappy 
client of Emney’s, hold of the wrong end of the business'stick, 
could have told Berice that in such matters he did not pre- 
varicate ; and Berice saw the corner into which she had put 


3 


THE EXCEPTION 


34 

herself and from which apparently he was not willing she 
should escape. She wanted to escape, in more senses than one. 
She wanted now to be out in the air, away from him, that she 
might examine her new discovery in all its bearings. She 
knew, to put it bluntly, that he was deliberately ingrati- 
ating himself. 

Her face was averted from him, and without looking at 
him she moved towards the wide opening that gave on the 
river. She stood at the end of the shed in a sector of sunlight, 
looking down on the grass-grown water-wheel. 

“ This is the wheel, if you care to see it,” she said pre- 
sently, “ and that’s all. As you say, the whole thing’s rather 
a Folly. It isn’t my uncle’s line, that’s all.” 

“ No,” he replied quite simply, and this time without a 
smile. Then, as a figure passed along the wooded bank on 
the other side of the stream, he asked, “ Who’s that ? ” 

“Where?” she said, turning. . . . “Oh, that’s Bunny — 
Bunny Hartopp, Sir John Hartopp’s son, your neighbour.” 

Bunny, trudging with head down along the opposite bank, 
did not glance across at the mill ; he took a little slope, and 
disappeared round the end of the bridge. And as Emney 
watched him pass, an unreasonable but undeniable twinge 
took him that she should have lived her life and formed her 
friendships before ever he had known her. 


V 


B UNNY had seen neither Berice nor Emney standing 
within the opening above the water-wheel ; but he 
saw them both that same afternoon when he walked with his 
father over the moor to shake hands with the new tenant of 
Skirethorns. It was on the terrace that he found himself 
striking matches in Berice’s company, while Sir John Hartopp 
and Emney and Everard Beckwith stood talking outside the 
open drawing-room window a few yards away. 

Berice could not have told why in her secret heart she was 
a little afraid of Bunny ; probably, indeed, she would not 
have admitted the fact. Nevertheless, she realized the many 
differences between them. Compared with her own slight, 
off-handed, and facile apprehension of things, Bunny’s methods 
of thought were slow and restricted. She considered him to 
be entirely devoid of the capacity for making allowances. 
Things were right to him, or they were wrong ; black, or 
white ; and it did not seem to Berice that things in this 
world were frequently so simply and unqualifiably one thing 
or the other. Knowing nothing of Bunny the painter, it 
would have seemed an unreal thing to her that Bunny re- 
served elasticities and extenuations for his seldom-exhibited 
canvases ; and she would probably have told him roundly 
that she would have preferred harsher painting and less 
moroseness in ordinary intercourse. And yet she feared him. 
He was hard, and could hurt without knowing that he hurt. 
And Berice would make almost any avoidance in order to 
escape pain. 

As she eyed him a little askance as he stood by her side 
on the terrace, she remarked on the number of matches he 
struck. He received the remark without looking at her ; 
but presently he seemed to reconsider something, and made 

35 


THE EXCEPTION 


36 

a little motion of his head that she should come a little further 
from the' group by the drawing-room window. His hand 
was fumbling in the pocket of his jacket. 
t “ What is it ? ” she asked, approaching him. 

Bunny mumbled. “ I know you used to wear one — a few 
years ago — I’ve seen one in the collar of your sweater — it 
isn’t mine — I never had one — if it isn’t yours it’s Lionel’s ” 

He put a crumpled piece of paper into her hand. She 
opened it. It contained a plain gold safety-pin. 

Her eyes seemed fastened to it as it lay in her hand. A 
“ Tha — thanks,” came dryly from her lips. “ Thanks,” she 
said again, with more resolution ; and then, as if even then 
it was not quite well enough, “ Thanks,” she said for the 
third time. 

“ You used to have one. So did Lionel — fastened his 
stock with one. I don’t know whose it is — it isn’t mine,” 
Bunny mumbled again, looking away down the garden to 
where a couple of gardeners were at work. “ Have it if you 
like, anyway,” he added. 

The pin had been her own at one time, but for the life of 
her she could not remember whether she had ever given it 
away. Presently she shot a stealthy look at Bunny. He 
seemed unconscious of the glance. 

“ You can give it me back if you don’t want it,” he said, 
still watching the gardeners. 

“ Where ? ” she began : but quickly she changed her 

mind. Perhaps it would be better not to ask Bunny where 
he had found it. Quietly, and as if of its own volition, her 
hand went with hardly a tremor to the short tie at her bosom. 
It fastened the pin there, and gave the tie a tug. 

“ Thank you. I’ll keep it,” she said. 

A silence fell upon them, and from further along the 
terrace came Emney’s voice— You can depend upon it, 
Beckwith, that a man who’s getting more than ten per cent 
for his money is paying it himself. . . .” 

By and by Bunny spoke again, breaking with a great effort 
the obstinate silence. 

“ You know Mrs. Finch-Ommaney’s putting up a memorial 
to him ? ” he said abruptly. 


COTTERDALE 37 

Berice moistened her lips. “ To Lionel ? Where ? ” 

“ In the church. I was at Undershaws a couple of days 
ago, and we were talking about it. I’m finding a sculptor 
for her. Rotten job to do it will be — all from photographs 
and descriptions, of course. ...” 

“ Oh ? ” 

" Yes.” 

Again Emney’s voice was heard (Everard had disappeared 
into the house). “ Well, it may be a hobby, and may even 
cost money — though as I was saying to Miss Beckwith this 
morning, I regard it as quite a good investment too : but 
even if it is one, our hobbies needn’t be reduced to a paying 
basis. ...” 

Again Bunny broke silence. 

“ When are you going away ? ” he asked. 

“ As soon as Ev’s ready. The sooner the better, I think,” 
said Berice shortly. 

“ Yes,” said Bunny again. . . . 

The monosyllable was capable of a torturing number of 
shades of interpretation ; but Berice’s nature was not so 
transparent that it did not include a measure of craft. She 
ached to know what Bunny meant, and knew that people’s 
meanings are likely to come out if they talk long enough. 
Her hand went to the pin at her breast for a moment, and 
then she asked in a low voice : 

“ Why ‘ Yes,’ Bunny— like that ? ” 

“ It’s only what you said yourself,” was Bunny’s reply. 

“But why ‘Yes’ in that tone, Bunny?” She sought to 
cajole and to reproach both at once. 

Bunny fidgeted. 

“ Well — I mean — if I were in your place I should want to 
be one thing or the other — here or away.” 

Her voice broke a little. “ Anybody’d think you were 
anxious to get rid of me, Bunny.” 

Bunny met the remark with a stare. “ I ? . . . Of course, 
I shall be sorry ; but that apart, what difference does it 
make to me ? I don’t want to be rude, but dash it all, Berice, 
don’t let’s quarrel.” 

“I’m not quarrelling — it’s you who aren’t as you used to 


THE EXCEPTION 


38 

be. You go away without saying good-bye to me, and have 
hardly a word for me when you come back again. . . . Why 
can t we be friends ? Why aren’t we friends ? ” 

“ I didn’t know we weren’t,” said Bunny doggedly. 

“ I don’t think you realize how different you are. You 
used ” 

With quick exasperation Bunny struck another match, 
but by the time he had thrown it away again he had mas- 
tered himself, and spoke more gently. 

“ Better drop it, Berice. It isn’t as if I didn’t know you, 
you know. I do know you. You want pleasant things said 
to you all the time, and if I don’t say ’em I’m rude. And if 
I do say ’em, what’s the good ? I can’t help it — let’s drop it. 
I’ll tell you one thing, though, if you like : you’ve had too 
much that you wanted, and you’re spoiled. That’s my 
opinion.” 

And with his next match Bunny really managed to light 
his pipe. 

“ What have I ” Berice began ; but at that moment 

Everard stepped out of the drawing-room window again and 
called Bunny. 

“ Hallo ? ” Bunny called back. 

“ Just a minute. You remember when we staked all out 
for the ponds ? Was it a four or a five- foot fall we allowed 
for ? ” 

“ Five,” said Bunny, as he turned his back on Berice and 
strolled towards the group. “ Five, and a three-foot basin.” 

“Five, was it? H’m! . . . Well, the best thing we can 
do is to go up and have a look at the place. There’s just time 
before lunch. Coming with us, Bunny ? ” 

“I’ll follow you up presently. If I may, I should like to 
go inside and write a letter, Mr. Emney.” 

“ By all means ; you know where, I expect. Will you 
join us, Miss Beckwith ? ” 

“ If you’ll excuse me — I’m just going up to my room,” 
said Berice. . . . 

If Emney, glancing round as the party moved away, 
supposed that these two were remaining behind to be in each 
other’s company, he was wrong. Berice went straight up to 


COTTERDALE 


39 

her room, and Bunny into the drawing-room, where he sat 
down to write his letter. It began : 

“ Dear Neill, 

“ I’ve made that all right, and you’d better come 
down at once. I suppose you’ll use clay, not wax, but if you 
want wax you’d better bring your own. You can order clay 
and plaster from here. Mrs. Finch-Ommaney has the profile 
photograph, but it has a Service cap on that rather hides the 
shape of the head, so you’ll have to manage as best you 
can. . . 

At this point Bunny’s letter changed its character. After 
a prolonged pondering, presumably on what was to follow, 
Bunny made a letter ‘ B ’ in the middle of the blank portion 
of the page. Then he wrote a name, and then wrote it again. 
The rest of the letter ran : 

“ Berice — Berice — B — B. B. — Bice — Berice ” 

Then suddenly he pushed his chair back and rose. He 
crumpled up the sheet of paper and thrust it into his pocket. 
He then crammed his cap savagely on his head and went out, 
and, taking the direction that would most quickly place 
distance between himself and the party that had ascended 
to the site of the new ponds, he strode away without looking 
behind him. 

From the window of her room Berice watched him depart. 
Now that she was alone her face had a scared look. Twice, 
when little fluttering fits had taken her, she had put herself 
before the glass and had striven to look at her own face as if 
it belonged to somebody else ; but each time her eyes had 
wandered to the gold pin at her breast and had refused to 
leave it. She wondered how she had appeared to Bunny in a 
certain moment hardly half an hour ago. . . . 

But, she remembered, she had not appeared either one 
way or another to Bunny ; Bunny had not looked at her ; 
and the swift thought, Why had he not done so ? came to her. 
It was not very extraordinary that he had not ; it would not 
have been very extraordinary if he had ; still — why had he 
not ? And if he had looked, what would he have seen ? . . . 


THE EXCEPTION 


40 

She rose for the purpose of making another lightning-swift 
cast into the glass, but again found herself gazing only at the 
slender slip of gold. . . . 

Wistaria embowered her bedroom window and covered the 
little balcony outside. Bunny had gone, but beyond the 
steel-blue flowers, nearly a mile away, a thread of the Cotter 
gleamed, and through a gap in the trees a score or two yards 
of the white ribbon of road showed. Suddenly she remembered 
that if Bunny went down the Dale he would pass along that 
bit of road. . . . 

She sprang to the window, as if she hoped the sight of his 
heavy shoulders might tell her something. 

He appeared, a small speck moving quickly, and dis- 
appeared again. Berice’s brow gathered into a twist of fear. 
She sank into a chair. Not even to herself dared she formu- 
late that fear. . . . 

Then she remembered Bunny’s inflexible code. In time 
past she had twitted him about it, had laughingly congratu- 
lated him on the simplification of Life it made when black 
could be seen to be so immitigably black and white so clear 
of soilure. He had usually grunted in reply that things 
ought to be called by their proper names. Once she had 
assured him that, holding views so unassailably normal, he 
would be an Academician yet ; and he had fumed, and 
demanded to be shown what was the connection. It had 
never been difficult to bewilder Bunny with what he contemptu- 
ously called ‘ tongue-work,’ and probably the only result of 
Berice’s amusement had been that Bunny now credited her 
with more understanding than she had ever possessed. 
There is a penalty to be paid for being sometimes accidentally 
right ; the gambler seldom retires as long as the luck is with 
him. That was why Berice liked to go to the dear, easy- 
going Tracys. All her casts of wit were double-sixes there. 
But with Bunny. . . . 

“ You've had too much that you wanted ; you’re spoiled ” 

. . . it might mean everything, or nothing. And he had 
given her the pin— the pin. She was in a horrible ignorance ; 
she could hardly endure to sit at her window and think of it. 
One moment she felt that she must rush out at once, meet 


COTTERDALE 


4 * 

him on his return, and ask him in plain words what he had 
meant ; the next she felt that she could not face him. Again 
she wondered whether she had betrayed herself in accepting 
the pin — and whether she would not have done better to 
refuse it. After all, she could not remember whether it had 
actually been her own or Lionel’s ; probably they had both 
worn it. . . . Then, the next moment, she welled with re- 
assurances. She told herself that she was stuffing her imagina- 
tion with silly fears. As for the taciturnity of Bunny’s 
manner, well, without that Bunny would not be Bunny. He 
must be taken as he was. If it had been anybody else she 
would have quailed ; but Bunny ... no, it had meant 
nothing. Her quick fears had been sparks of her light fancy, 
and were already dead in the striking-out. She would wear 
the pin. . . . 

The next moment again it seemed to burn her through her 
clothing. . . . 

And then again she gave a little stifled laugh. Bunny ? 
As if anybody took any notice of Bunny ! . . . 

But the net result of half an hour of this was wholly to 
confirm her in her half-formed intention of the morning, 
when she had dropped her eyes before that unmistakable look 
in Emney’s. She would go away. Bunny, too, had said it 
would be the best. Emily Tracy would be glad to have her 
for a month or so. She would write at once, acquainting 
her of her willingness to be invited. Yes, she would write to 
Emily without a minute’s delay. 

Already calmer, she went downstairs, and, at the table not 
long before vacated by Bunny, wrote her letter. Then, 
putting on her hat and looking at herself in another mirror, 
she went out, leaving her letter on the hall table as she 
passed. 

Five minutes later she stood with the three men at the 
rush-covered patch of hillside above the plantation. Even 
as she arrived Emney was saying, “ Then, Beckwilh, with 
your permission I’ll put it in hand at once. . .” 

Everard, who was winding up a ball of string, gave a short, 
pleased laugh. 

“ You have my permission all right,” he laughed. “ I’ve 


THE EXCEPTION 


42 

no objection to my property being improved — provided 
always there’s some adjustment of our contract. What you 
do for your private convenience is your own affair to a large 
extent, but I benefit too, and I give no consent unless I meet 
you on the cost. Let me see, let me see ” 

There was a quiet twinkle in Emney’s eyes. 

“ Very well ; we hardly need go into that now. . . . But 
there’s just one other point. It’s your property I’m going 
to cut about, and I don’t care to take the responsibility of 
doing it quite on my own. Of course, we could have a specifi- 
cation drawn up, and I should be bound by that, but — is 
that necessary ? What I mean is, are you so pressingly 
engaged elsewhere that you couldn’t stay and see the thing 
at least well started ? ” 

Berice heard it, and her heart marked the speech with a 
private “ I told you so ! ” She knew that Emney did not 
care one of the rushes at his feet about the ponds, and she 
felt the balm of a little satisfaction that already he was fore- 
stalled. In a couple of days she would have heard from 
Emily Tracy, and could be off that same afternoon. . . . 

“ Oh, no, no — that’s far too kind of you,” Everard was 
saying irresolutely. 

“You can’t even see the thing started ?....” 

“ I could hardly do more than that, at the very most. . . . 
You hear what Mr. Emney’s so good as to propose, 
Berice ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Berice with composure. “ It’s most kfnd of 
Mr. Emney. Perhaps it would be the best thing for you, 
and then I could do as Emily Tracy suggests.” 

“ Emily ? . . . You’ve heard from Emily, have you ? . . . 
What’s that she suggests ? ” Everard asked. 

Berice anticipated Emily’s wish by a post or two. " She 
wants me to go and stay with them. I’ve already broken 
the news to Mr. Emney. I shall go on Thursday.” 

Everard put the ball of string in his pocket. 

“ Oh, well, that simplifies things,” he said cheerfully. “ I 
myself shouldn’t have been off by Thursday in any case. 
Thanks, Emney. So we may as well all go on to Hartopp’s 
to dinner, as he suggests.” 


COTTERDALE 


43 

Nobody would have guessed from Emney’s tone that he 
had just been baulked in anything. He murmured : 

“ Delighted. . . . Here’s your son back too, I think, Sir 
John ” 

There was the sound of somebody coming up through the 
plantation ; but it was not Bunny. A man from Undershaws 
came up to Berice with a letter. She opened it and read it. 
It ran : 

“ Dear Berice, 

“ Mrs. Finch-Ommaney would like you to come over, 
to-day if you can. She particularly wants it, and Dr. Vayle 
thinks it would be as well if you could. Please reply. 

“ P.S — I’d bring a few things. 

“ Yours, 

“ Celia.” 

Slowly Berice folded the letter and put it into her pocket. 
She turned to the messenger. 

“ If you’ll come down to the house I’ll give you an answer,” 
she said. Then, turning to her uncle, she added, “ I shan’t 
be able to go to Emily’s after all. Mrs. Finch-Ommaney 
wants me to go over there.” 

Passing into the house a few minutes later to write her 
reply, she took from the hall table the uncollected letter she 
had written to Emily Tracy, tore it in two, and put the 
halves into her pocket. She wrote her note to Celia Chester, 
and then went slowly upstairs to put a few necessaries to- 
gether. 


VI 


I T was with a feeling that she was being urged forward 
against her will that Berice, alighting from the trap 
beyond Cotterdale village and sending Joe Warry forward 
with her bag, began that same afternoon to walk to Under- 
shaws. To go to that house was the last thing she would 
have chosen, had she had any choice. It had never been a 
merry house — it did not look merry. It lay low by the river, 
and was darkened by almost the only elms in the neighbour- 
hood, the innumerable rooks nesting in which filled the 
air with their cawing. Even its luxurious lily-garden, the 
finest for miles round, had few attractions for Berice ; Mrs. 
Finch-Ommaney had made it, and it was rather like its 
maker — a little scenically displayed, a little showy and 
artificial, a little existing for its own sake at some cost not 
easily to be defined. And it was precisely the opposite of all 
these things of which Berice stood for the moment in need. 

And besides Mrs. Finch-Ommaney herself, there was 
Celia Chester, the pretty, gently stupid girl, devoted, with 
not too much vitality about her, faithful to the letter of 
things, and now naturally bowed down by grief. . . . 

Well, there was nothing for it but to go through with it. . . . 
Berice saw the long, low front of the yellow-washed house, 
with its yard- wide eaves and its room- darkening veranda, 
before she was observed by the two women who sat outside. 
One of them, however, did not sit — Mrs. Finch-Ommaney 
appeared to e sleeping in a long chair. By the side of her 
black, the black in which Celia was dressed was somehow 
hardly seen- so enriched a blackness did it seem to take on 
from the genius of her wearing of it : the shawl that covered 
her was black, and a piece of black lace was drawn down in 
a point over her high-piled white hair. Her brows seemed 


44 


COTTERDALE 


45 

to make blacker arches and her lashes a darker fringing than 
usual, and her small mouth, with its voluptuously downy 
corners, was slightly open. 

“ Don’t wake her,” Berice whispered as Celia rose. “ I 
came at once, you see.” 

Celia seemed pale, worn out, and listless. Her eyes a little 
avoided Berice’s. 

“ Thank you. I thought you would. She seems to want 
you,” she replied. 

“You look tired out too, dear ; I shall have to look after 
the pair of you, I see. Tell me what I can do.” 

“ I don’t know, except just be here,” Celia sighed. “ That’s 
what she seems to want. ... I think she’s awake. Here’s 
Berice, mother dear.” 

Berice knelt by the chair and took one of Mrs. Finch- 
Ommaney’s plump hands in her own. 

“ I’ve come, dear Mrs. Finch-Ommaney,” she said. 

Mrs. Finch-Ommaney struggled with her drowsiness. 

“ I’ve been dreaming,” she murmured. “ I shall be quite 
awake in a minute. . . . How sweet of you to come, darling.” 

“You didn’t think I shouldn’t ? ” Berice murmured re- 
proachfully. 

“No, dear — no, dear — but I was selfish to ask it. I know 
we oughtn’t to allow one sorrow to make us selfish, but I 
can’t help it. Poor Cecil — and then my Lai . . . my own 
boy. . . . But you must bear with me, dear ; you will, won’t 
you ? Do you think we might have tea, Celie ? Berice 
would like tea. I won’t have any, thank you — and please 
tuck my feet in — no, don’t trouble — it doesn’t matter — I’m 
only giving trouble.” 

Tea was brought on a small table, and Celia busied herself 
among the cups. She moved so languidly that Berice, jumping 
up, took the teapot from her. Celia relinquished it without 
protest, and bent over Mrs. Finch-Ommaney. 

“ Your cushions are quite comfortable, mother dear ? ” 
she asked. 

“ Quite, thank you, C61ie. Thank you, thank you.” 

“ And are your feet warm ? ” 

“ Perfectly, my child. What a devoted attendant you are ! ” 


THE EXCEPTION 


46 

“ Then do you mind if I leave you with Berice for a little 
while ? I’ve rather a headache.” She passed her hand 
wearily over her brow. 

“ Drink this,” said Berice, passing her a cup of tea. 

But Celia said that it would do her more good to lie down, 
made fresh arrangements of Mrs. Finch-Ommaney’s cushions, 
kissed her, and passed into the house. Mrs. Finch-Ommaney’s 
eyes followed her : then she turned to Berice. 

“ Now we can talk,” she said, immediately adding, “ of 
course, I don’t mean we couldn’t have talked with poor 
Celie here. . . . Oh, dear, I’m not properly awake yet ! — I 
was dreaming when you came. ... I am very happy when 
I dream nowadays. ... You can stay for a little while 
with a fretful old woman, can’t you, Berice ? And if you 
don’t mind picking that book up ” 

“I’ve brought a small bag, and I can send for other things 
if necessary,” said Berice, picking up the copy of the Imitation 
that had slipped to the ground. 

“ Thank you, dear. If Lai could see you now, taking care 
of his poor old mother . . . but things had to be as they 
were, I suppose : it’s no good thinking how different they 
might have been. . . . Where’s Sammie ? Having his 
snooze, I expect. Sammie’s very dear to me now, poor old 
doggie.— Do you remember the day when Bunny hit him 
with a stone, Berice ? Oh, quite by accident, I know ! You 
were there, I think — you and Emily Tracy and Bunny and 
my boy — you’d all gone for a walk, if I remember. And Lai 
carried him all the way home, and went into the village in 
the rain for some ointment without even changing his wet 
things — poor old doggie ! ” 

“ Yes,” said Berice. She remembered it. At the time 
she had thought that more consideration was shown to the 
spaniel than to Bunny. 

“ So like him ! ” Mrs. Finch-Ommaney murmured. . . . 
“ But I am given strength to bear it. I sleep a good deal, 
and I always dream. . . . Berice, dear,” she paused, fondled 
Berice’s hands for a moment, and then continued in alower tone, 
“ you must forget what I said the other day. I oughtn’t to have 
said it. I ought not to have shown so little resignation. . . .” 


COTTERDALE 


47 

Nor ought she to have alluded to it now, Berice could not 
forbear thinking • but she only murmured “ Hush ! ” 

“ No, I oughtn’t to have said it. Forget it, dear. I’ll try. 
I’ll really try to forget it too. . . . We owe something to 
poor Celie after all. . . . And sometimes I read the Imitation. 
Oh, that comforting book ! I wonder if you would read to 
me a little ! ” 

“ Won’t you take a walk on my arm instead ? ” said Berice, 
already looking on the wondrous book with no great favour. 

But Mrs. Finch-Ommaney raised her dark half-moon 
brows, as if Berice had proposed something a little shocking. 

“ Oh, my darling, I couldn’t ! ” she protested, with a 
decisiveness that was not the less for being mildly uttered. . . . 

Not for the first time, a thought had crossed Berice’s mind 
so distasteful that she reddened to entertain it. She won- 
dered whether Mrs. Finch-Ommaney was making a luxury 
of her grief. But quickly she strove to put the suggestion 
away as hardly decent. Human nature will not bear dis- 
section to that extent. The face-value of things must be 
accepted. And unless Berice’s immediate future was to 
become an hourly torture she already saw clearly that she 
would have to shut her eyes to very much, and to harden 
herself against that which came in at her ears. . . . 

“ But I shall make you walk, you know, if I’m to stay 
here,” she said, with the best attempt at gaiety she could 
compass. “ I don’t mind reading a little to you now, how- 
ever.” 

She took the book. 

She read from the Imitation for half an hour. Celia did 
not reappear. Then Berice closed the book, helped Mrs. 
Finch-Ommaney to rise, and supported her as far as the 
door of her room. She then sought her own apartment. 

She lingered long over the unpacking of her few things, and 
when she had finished lay down on her bed until the gong 
should sound. ... Its reverberation roused her at half-past 
six ; she had no dressing to do ; and she descended to dinner 
in an artificially braced mood which it had cost her no little 
effort to attain. 

The three women dined alone. After dinner Berice busied 


THE EXCEPTION 


48 

herself with needlework, while Celia wrote letters and Mrs. 
Finch-Ommaney dozed over the Imitation. At half-past nine 
Mrs. Finch-Ommaney asked for her candles. 

“ I shall go too,” said Celia dejectedly. She had not 
spoken a dozen words all the evening, and Berice looked on 
it as cruelty that she should be kept in that house. She 
lacked the robust spirits that could have borne up against it. 

Five minutes later Berice found herself alone. She sat 
down before a dying log fire. 

The Undershaws rooms were large and full of uncertain 
glooms, in which suddenly-seen liquid mirrors made decep- 
tive distances ; there seemed to be immense spaces between 
the candles that burned in their still haloes at one end of the 
room and those at the other end. The reflections of the flames 
in the uncurtained window-panes seemed inimitably remote. 
Outside the elms sighed, and the log on the hearth made a 
sound of settling from time to time. Berice got up out of 
her chair, curled herself on the thick rug, and gazed absently 
at the reticulated pattern of brightness on the under side 
of the log. 

Little more than a week had passed since, stretched on a 
rock at the margin of a mountain stream, there had come to 
her that strange, illusory sense of things closed, ^folded up, 
scored off and sanctified in her memory, and already its 
support was failing her. The world was showing itself very 
little heedful of her emotional crises. The impact of other 
lives on her own had not ceased merely because she had 
decreed certain things to be at an end. Her uncle’s amiable 
pond- jacket — Emney’s attempt to turn it to his own uses — 
her own frustrated effort at frustration — Mrs. Finch-Om- 
maney’s unexpected summons — and added to all these the 
disturbing incident of the pin— a few days had brought it all 
to pass, and here she was at Undershaws, with old ghosts and 
memories crowding thick upon her. There was a fascination 
about it all — there almost seemed a purpose. She looked 
round the room ; she knew it so well : it had changed so 
little since she herself, as a little girl, had stayed at Under- 
shaws weeks together. Cecil Finch-Ommaney, Lionel’s 
father, had been alive then, and she remembered him as 


COTTERDALE 


49 

he had sat in his chair there, with Lionel, a little boy of six, 
dark eyed and arched browed, in a lace collar, sitting on the 
footstool at his father’s feet, spelling slowly out of his book 
and easily distracted from the page. . . . Then he had become 
a cadet. . . . Then . . . But the heads of markhor and 
gazelle, the little glass-topped table-cases of antiques and 
valuables, the rugs, the chairs, the low-raftered ceiling, all 
had voices that whispered rather horribly to her spirit. 
Berice would hardly have been surprised had the door opened 
and had one of the dead ones entered. . . . 

The door did open ; but it was Celia Chester who entered. 
She was night-gowned, with her hair in two straight and 
rather short plaits and her feet pushed into slippers of knitted 
blue wool ; and the wrap she had cast hastily about her 
shoulders had slipped half-way down to her waist. She 
stood with her hand on the knob, for the moment not seeing 
Berice stretched on the rug ; then she saw her, closed the 
door softly, and moved to the hearth. She put one knitted 
slipper on the kerb, and in the firelight her form was seen 
faintly within her slight attire. 

“ I thought you went to bed too early,” Berice remarked. 

As Celia put her hand to the edge of the mantelpiece her 
sleeve fell, showing her thin and rubile arm to the armpit. 

“ Yes. I couldn’t sleep, so I’ve come down to sit with 
you,” she said. 

Berice had her own opinion of Celia’s capacity for hiding 
her emotion ; it was that it was small : and she was not 
surprised when presently Celia gave a little gulp and allowed 
her head to fall to the arm that was stretched out to the 
mantelpiece. The spiritless way in which she wept had the 
special touchingness of hopeless, unresisting grief. 

“ Oh, Berice ! — It isn’t as if I hadn’t done my best,” she 
sobbed quietly. “ I have — I’ve taken everything on myself 
— I scarcely leave her side — I do everything, and — and ” 

“ Hush ! ” Berice gently besought her, putting her hand 
for a moment on the wool-clad foot. 

“ — and it isn’t enough — I don’t seem to be able to help — 
I don’t mean that she complains — but I don’t seem to be any 

good ” 

4 


THE EXCEPTION 


50 

“ Oh, hush ! ” Berice sat up on the rug and passed one 
arm about the lightly clad ankles. “ She’s ill, and overcome 

with sorrow— at any rate ” But Berice checked her 

qualification. 

“ I’ve tried— I’ve done my best— but it’s you, you she 
wants ! ” Celia broke wretchedly out. 

Berice was silent. She was wondering whether Mrs. Finch- 
Ommaney had spoken one of her asides in Celia’s presence. 
She did not know that involuntarily she embraced the girl’s 
ankles more closely. 

“ And the hard thing is that it’s — oh, it’s my place to 
help ! ” Celia moaned. “ We were to have been married — 
we were to have been married in very little more than a year 
— his next leave — he was getting a whole year, and then I 
was to have gone out with him — and oh, it’s my place ! In 
the very last letter I ever had from him he said . . . but I 
can’t tell you . . . you don’t know what beautiful letters he 
wrote . . . and I could forget half my own trouble if I 
could only comfort her . . . but everything I can do isn’t 
enough.” 

“ Poor child ! ” Berice spoke the words hardly audibly, 
and shivered a little as she did so. Then, conquering the 
slight faintness that had come over her, she added with a 
helpless gesture, “ It is your place, dear, but — but you know 
I didn’t want to take it from you ! Oh, I didn’t — you don’t 
know how little I wanted ! ” 

She closed her eyes hard, as if she would shut out the sight 
of Undershaws and all it contained. 

“ You didn’t want to come ? You really didn’t ? ” Celia 
cried, making a little impulsive movement to be gathered 
more closely into Berice’s arms. 

“ I didn’t.” 

“ Really ? You’re not saying it just out of kindness ? ” 

“ I’d rather be anywhere else than here just now,” said 
Berice, with a miserable fervour that was lost on Celia. 

Celia sank softly to her knees in front of Berice. 

“ Oh, Berice ! ” she said with soft contrition, “ I didn’t, 
I really didn’t know ! I was afraid that — that — oh, I knew 
that his mother really wanted you — she always wanted you, 


COTTERDALE 51 

I know she did — and I was afraid you wanted him, and that 
you’d have taken him if he’d ever asked you ! Oh, that’s 
what I thought ! . . . And I was jealous, darling, when I 
hadn’t got him any longer, and knew what his mother was 
thinking ! . . . Tell me I needn’t have been jealous, 
Berice — yes, I know it’s silly of me to ask it, but tell me, 
dear ” 

Berice’s cheek was against the younger girl’s. Her face 
could not be seen. And then again Celia seemed to have a 
momentary doubt, for she put Berice a little away, while a 
brief anxiety showed on her brow. 

“ And I needn’t have been jealous on his account either ? ” 
she said, with a short catch of her breath. 

It was to avoid the trusting look in her eyes that Berice 
drew Celia to her again. 

“ I could never, never have married him, Celia — is that 
what you mean ? ” 

For a moment longer Celia seemed to mistrust. 

“ You’re not saying it because I ask you ? ” 

“No. I could never, never, never have married him — 
what more can I say ? ” 

“ On your honour ? ” 

“ On my honour ” she could at least say that. . . . 

Celia’s sob of thankfulness was almost a laugh. 

“ How mean and wicked I’ve been ! Oh, forgive me, 
Berice ! And I sent you such a horrid curt note to-day too ! 
. . . . You see,” she chattered almost gaily, “ it’s been so 
plain, what his mother wanted — don’t shake your head ; 
I know she did ! — that I thought — I thought — and he ought 
to have had you by rights — I could never understand it — but, 
of course, I was glad he didn’t ! . . . I even said to him once, 
‘ Why don’t you marry Berice ? * And he said . . . but I 
can’t tell you what he said, dear ; that’s mine only, it was 
so sweet ; I only think of it sometimes . . . and I was 
jealous even though I knew he’d never asked you ! . . . 
And I sent you that horrid, horrid note ! What a beast you 
must have thought me ! — But I’m so much happier now ! 
. . . How your heart beats, dear ! That’s my wrong thoughts, 
I know. . . . I’m so ashamed. ...” 


THE EXCEPTION 


52 

She babbled on, saying the same things half a dozen times 
over, gradually finding a peace in her innocent self-reproaches. 
Presently she was quite calm again. 

“ Oh, by the by,” she said suddenly, “ I suppose you know 
Bunny’s friend’s coming to-morrow ? ” 

Berice was dully watching the dying log. She managed to 
get out a “ Who ? ” 

“ Mr. Neill. Who’s to do the memorial. Bunny was 
writing, but he wired instead, and Mr. Neill will be here 
to-morrow.” 

Ah, yes : Berice remembered she had heard something 
about a memorial. . . . 

“ He’ll stay with Bunny, and work in that cottage — you 
know it, of course. Mother wants the memorial done at 
once, so that it can be put up in the church on his birthday, 
in September.” 

Yes : Berice remembered his birthday was in September. . . 

“ The seventeenth. Bunny says Mr. Neill can just manage 
to do it in time. — And oh, Berice, there’s one other little 
thing. If you hadn’t told what you have I could never, 
never have done it — I was so horribly, horribly jealous and 
suspicious — but I’m perfectly, perfectly happy now ! You 
would like something of Lai’s to keep, wouldn’t you ? For 
both our sakes, his and mine ? I’ll give you — I’ll give you 
— but never mind : I’ll find something for you to remember 
him by. I couldn’t before, you know. . . 

For a moment Berice looked as if she was about to speak, 
but nothing came but a gulp. Celia continued. 

“I’ll find you something to-morrow. And I can go on 
being useful now. I shan’t mind so much when she’s a 
little troublesome. Oh, how I hated you to come, and how 
glad I am now that you did ! You do forgive me, don’t you ? 
. . . And oh, my dear, you’re as cold as ice ! Do come up 
into my bed ” 

Berice spoke as if she dragged up words by the roots. 

“ I should like to sit a little while yet — I should only 
disturb you coming up later — I’ll stay a little ” 

“ All alone down here ? And you so cold ? Well, if you 
must. Just one minute ” 


COTTERDALE 


53 

Celia clasped her. For a minute they remained enlaced ; 
then Celia kissed her many times, and rose. 

“ Good night, dear,” she said. “ Don’t stay long ” 

From the door she gave Berice another gentle look ; and 
then the door closed behind her. It was not until two hours 
later that Berice, shivering and weary, ridden with present 
fears and apprehensive of she knew not what gathering 
menaces yet to come, left the extinct fire and followed her. 


VII 


I T was on the following afternoon that Berice, unpacking 
in her bedroom the larger box of clothes that she had 
sent for and Joe Warry had already brought, heard helow 
her open window the voice of Bunny Hartopp introducing 
his friend Neill. Then a stranger’s voice, deep and pleasant 
and arrestingly gentle, floated up over the veranda. 

“Yes, Hartopp explained to me quite fully. . . . Indeed, 
I hope you won’t speak of trouble ; I owed Hartopp a visit 
in any case . . . the trouble will be of quite a different kind 
. . . . if I’d seen your son as much as once even ... do the 
best we can. . . .” 

The voice ceased, and the burden was taken up by Mrs. 
Finch-Ommaney’s more familiar tones — “ So very good . . . 
short notice . . . September . . . house of grief. . . .” 

Berice finished her unpacking, and went downstairs in time 
to meet the little group coming in for tea. 

Bunny’s friend was tall, slight almost to emaciation, and 
stooped a little. He was perhaps forty-two, with temples 
already silvered, and the look of a lean and noble hound. 
Berice did not remember who introduced him to her, nor 
even whether he was introduced ; she was only conscious 
that the gravity and gentleness of the eyes that met her own 
for a moment over the cup of tea Mr. Neill handed to her 
were among the most profoundly consoling and trustworthy 
things she had known. The next moment he had passed to 
Mrs. Finch-Ommaney’s side. Celia also had left the room, 
to return presently with a small packet which she handed 
to the sculptor. Bunny, with his buttoned knees a yard apart, 
was gazing down between them at the pattern of the carpet 
and his cup of tea on the floor. He had all the appearance 

54 


COTTERDALE 


55 

that the number of his accustomed griefs had been recently 
added to. 

“I’m afraid I must make it quite clear at the beginning 
that I can’t answer for the success of it,” Neill’s velvety 
voice was saying to Mrs. Finch-Ommaney. 

“ You cannot fail,” Mrs. Finch-Ommaney replied, with 
placid confidence. “ He had such a sweet disposition.” 

“ And one other thing I’m sure I need only mention,” 
Neill continued, inclining his head, “ I shall do my utmost, 
of course ; but if I find the thing beyond me I must be 
allowed to withdraw. There are peculiar difficulties, you 
see. Success depends as much on others as on me. Un- 
fortunately, too, you mention September as the date by 
which you would like the thing finished ” 

The pause, and the slight expressive gesture of his long 
hand, indicated that had it been possible it would have been 
better to delay the memorial, with all the discussion of it 
that would be involved, until hearts quivered less readily at 
a word. Bunny saw the gesture, dropped his eyes again, and 
muttered awkwardly to the carpet, “ Oh, that’s all right, 
Murragh ; I can tell you whole lots of things.” Berice 
caught Neill’s slight smile, that he should have to rely on the 
broken reed of Bunny’s communicativeness, and the next 
moment the smile vanished as Mrs. Finch-Ommaney spoke 
again. 

“You can speak quite freely about him to anyone here, 
Mr. Neill ; my boy’s was such a beautiful, beautiful character 
— I cannot yet realize that he is gone — gone. There’s nothing 
you cannot ask us. Miss Chester has the photographs, and 
every other help shall be given you. Ah, it’s so clear, so 
clear to me, that with your gift I almost feel as if ” 

Her slight gesture expressed her conviction that with 
Neill’s gift she could make the memorial herself. Neill was 
gravely attentive, and the talk continued — Lionel, Lionel, 
— his sweet babyhood, his lovely youth, the perfection of his 
manhood. . . . Berice, finding that her presence was not 
needed, rose and walked out into the garden. It was there, 
ten minutes later, that she heard her name spoken, and, 
turning, saw Mr. Neill, who had apparently come to seek her. 


56 THE EXCEPTION 

“ I should like, if I may, to have a word with you especially, 0 
he said. 

He assumed her consent that he should accompany her, 
and they walked towards the lily garden in silence. After a 
couple of minutes Neill spoke slowly. 

“You heard me speak of difficulties just now,” he said. 
“ There are difficulties, rather unusual ones. The technical 
ones are quite serious enough in the ordinary course of 
things, but these others ,” he made a pause. 

Berice waited. 

“ You, Miss Beckwith, if you would, could help me enor- 
mously,” he continued by and by. “ I think you see already 
what I mean. Obviously it’s one thing for Mrs. Finch- 
Ommaney to tell me I can ask any questions I like, as you 
heard her just now, and quite another for me to take her at 
her word. For one thing it would be a cruelty, and for another 
it would be of very doubtful worth when it was done.” 

Berice saw the point with the greatest clarity. 

“ One,” Neill continued, “ was his mother, the other his 
betrothed. You understand. ... I am hoping that these,” 
he tapped the packet in his hand, “ that these photographs 
will form a good enough basis to work on. What I want to 
ask you now is — whether you’ll help too ? ” 

Berice was silent, pondering this exquisite and least of all 
expected development. Neill continued. 

“ Let me be quite clear. Artistically, the thing is, of course, 
an absurdity from the start. A man with a conscience would 
hardly have undertaken it. The odd thing is that I have a 
conscience, and I have undertaken it. Usually I watch my 
man for a year before settling down to actual work at all ; 
in this case I’m reduced to watching him through other 
people’s eyes. Will you lend me yours ? ” 

They had stopped half-way down a path, and Berice’s 
hand was straying over snowy blossoms of phlox. Slowly 
she passed the other hand across the eyes of which he spoke. 
Presently, from out of intricacies of thought, she put a ques- 
tion in return. 

“Tell me,” she said falteringly, “ who flattered me by 
telling you I could help you. Was it Bunny ? ” 


COTTERDALE 


57 

“ Bunny ? Hartopp ? ... No. For that matter, Har- 
topp erred — I’m sure he erred — on the other side. Now that 
he’s got me down here, Hartopp doesn’t seem particularly 
anxious that I should go on with the job at all. If I must go 
on, he says, he’ll be able to tell me all I want to know. — No. 
It was Mrs. Finch-Ommaney herself, who wrote to me at 
the same time as Hartopp.” 

Berice checked a lost and despairing sigh, which, however, 
did not escape him. He bent his head sympathetically. 

“Yes, I know,” he said with a great gentleness, as if he 
thought he was answering her thought. “ I know I’m asking 
a good deal of you. But if it means so much to you, think 
what it would mean to them ! . . . When all allowances are 
made for his mother’s adoration he must have had a lovable 
nature. ... I may say that there’s no immediate hurry. 
The setting up of the thing will probably take at least a fort- 
night ; I can do that from the photographs ; but I thought 
it better to speak to you at once. Actually it will probably 
mean no more than your passing a few remarks on my work 
that quite possibly you would have passed in any case. 
You won’t know when you’ve helped me most ; a chance 
remark may be of more value than hours of deliberate talk. 
And I needn’t add that I should consider that you were 
reposing the very greatest trust in me. ...” 

Berice’s eyes were distractedly on the snowy phlox blos- 
soms. Her brow was beyond her control. She was wonder- 
ing now why Bunny had apparently sought to persuade his 
friend away from herself as a source of information — and 
even in the wonder she realized that if, on the other hand, 
Bunny had specially indicated herself she would have been 
no less distracted. Poor Bunny could do no right. . . . 

But suddenly her lips compressed, and she threw up her 
head. 

“ Yes, I’ll help you,” she said in a controlled voice. “ You’ll 
find me here when you want me.” 

“ Thank you,” Neill said simply. “ Then I’ll begin it 
to-morrow.” 

For the setting up in clay of the memorial certain wooden 


THE EXCEPTION 


58 

boxes were necessary, which the heterogeneous lumber 
of Bunny’s painting cottage on the moor failed to provide ; 
and, as other things also had to be ordered in Cotterdale 
village, Bunny and Neill found themselves on the following 
midday at the grocer’s shop opposite the “ Cotterdale Arms.” 
As the pair of them passed into the shop and then out of it 
again to inspect the crates and boxes on which rested the 
grocer’s display of onions and potatoes they were objects of 
interest to the half-dozen men who had gathered in the 
parlour of the “ Arms ” for their forenoon drinking. 

“ Who’s yon with Mr. Bernal, Ship ? ” a man asked of 
Ship Brooke, the landlord. 

Ship, who had been peering over the top of the horsehair 
half-blind, shook his head and passed the question on. 

“ Who is it, Harry ? ” he asked in his turn of old Harry 
Dean, Sir John Hartopp’s man. 

Harry gave the desired information. 

“ It’s a gentleman called Mister Neill, fro’ London. He’s 
stopping with Mister Bernal. He’s come to make t’ memorial, 
for t’ church.” 

“ Aw ! . . . (See, they’re off into t’ shop again.) ... To 
be sure, to be sure. They were down at t’ church this morn- 
ing ; they met Mister Emney there. I hear Mister Emney’s 
starting them new ponds as soon as t’ hay harvest’s ower. 
That’ll make a bit o’ trade.” 

“ It seems like waste, wi’ that at t’ top only just stocked,” 
a man remarked. 

“ Waste or no waste, it’s trade,” said the landlord. 

Then there followed a brief parenthetical passage. 

“ Trade ? ” a man who sat under a picture of Pretty Polly 
said, with a slow, large wink. “ What sort o’ trade ? ” 

“ Whist, Jake ! ” another man said, winking back. “ Ye 
oughtn’t to talk like that wi’ a gamekeeper in the room. 
That’s taproom talk — t’other side o’ t’ passage for that sort 
o’ talk ” 

“ What’s taproom talk ? ” 

“ Poaching’s taproom talk.” 

The man under the picture of Pretty Polly put his head 
back and composed himself as if to sleep. “Nay, nay,” he 


COTTERDALE 


59 

said dreamily, “ poaching depends on who it is. Ye don’t 
poach from onnybody. ... Ye might take,” he added, as 
if as an afterthought. 

The landlord, whose eye was at the hole in the horsehair 
half- blind again, made a movement of his hand. 

“ They’re coming out again,” he announced. 

Neill was indicating a box under the potato stall. “ Two 
like that will do,” he said. 

“ Send ’em up to my cottage, Tom,” said Bunny. “ Any- 
thing else while we’re in Oxford Street, Murragh ? ” 

“ Only a sponge and a few nails.” 

“ Peter Robinson’s for those. This way ” 

They passed out of sight of the watchers at the horsehair 
blind. 

Conjectures as to what the boxes were required for occu- 
pied the parlour of the “ Cotterdale Arms ” for the next few 
minutes ; then somebody asked Jim Bright, who reclined in 
the window-seat on the nape of his neck and the lower part 
of his back, what events he had decided to win at the forth- 
coming Feast. Jim was Bunny Hartopp’s faithful dog, and 
it was his custom each year, when the Ridsdale and Cotter- 
dale Feasts drew near, to tick off beforehand the events in 
which he proposed to be victorious and to count the prize- 
money already in his pocket. He named several events 
now. 

“ And how much’ll that be, if Mister Bernal doesn’t run ? ” 
Ship asked. 

“ Three pound ten.” 

“ And how much if he does ? ” 

“ Thirty bob, if I win t’ Fell race.” 

“ Well, I shouldn’t do all t’ work and give t’ money away 
myself,” the landlord remarked ; for the money-prizes fore- 
gone by Bunny in Jim’s favour were proudly passed on by 
Jim to the contestant next placed. 

Jim merely replied, “ Wouldn’t you ? ” and settled him- 
self more comfortably. Nobody in Cotterdale ever charged 
Ship Brooke with throwing his money about. 

A man knocked with his empty glass on the table, and 
Ship departed to refill it. When he returned it seemed as if 


6o 


THE EXCEPTION 


a thought had occurred to him during his absence, for he 
addressed himself directly to Joe Warry, the head man and 
husband of the housekeeper at Skirethorns. 

“ Right, now, Joe, and fair talking,” he said ingratiatingly, 
“ what sort is this Mister Emney ? ” 

Joe’s broad face was a-beam with enjoyment of a particu- 
larly smooth-drawing pipe. “ Eh ? Did ye speak, Ship ? ” 
he asked. 

“ About this Mister Emney : what sort is he ? ” 

“ Oh ! Mister Emney ! ” said Joe, contentedly puffing. 
“ What sort is he ? . . . Now I don’t know, Ship — all things 
considered — that I’ve owt partickler to say on the subject.” 

“ It’s all right, Joe — Jane’s a good two mile away,” said 
the landlord, with an encouraging wink. . . . “ Well, is it 
right that Miss Berice showed him round t’ mill ? ” 

Joe peered mildly up through his smoke at the picture of 
Pretty Polly. 

“ Well — as for that, Ship — I can’t say — searching my 
mind, like — that I think Miss Berice has owt to do wi’ t’ 
present company, as ye might say,” he remarked. 

A cunning look came into the landlord’s face. 

“ But we can think what we like, if all Rufus says is true,” 
he observed, with another wink. 

“ He’s a noticing chap, is Rufus,” was Joe’s reply, put 
forward, as it were, as a detached proposition for the con- 
sideration of the company. 

A man with a scythe-blade broke the silence that followed. 
He had not hitherto spoken. 

“ I met him up t’ Brow this morning,” he remarked. 

“ Mister Emney ? ” said Ship, wheeling round. 

“ Ay.” 

“ Well ? . . .” 

“ Ay, I met him. . . .” 

The English villager is capable of niceties of impression, 
if not always of expression. Harrison Emney, meeting a 
labouring man on the road that morning and passing the 
time of day with him, would have considered the casual 
affability more carefully had he dreamed that it would be 
sifted, turned inside out, and have judgment passed on it in 


COTTERDALE 


6 1 


the parlour of the “ Cotterdale Arms.” That slight over- 
doing, that careful carelessness, which Berice had discovered 
in Emney, the village was conscious of at the other end of 
the local scheme of things. Hence the delicate distinction 
the “ Arms ” drew between ‘ poaching ’ and * taking.’ . . 

“ Asked after t’ wife and childer an’ all,” the man with 
the scythe said, with a sort of sub-relish. . . . 

“ You might ha’ got him to stand godfather to t’ next,” 
Brooke remarked. 

And another man summed up by saying that it would be 
like taking a linch-pin out when Mister Everard left. 

But the sound of a motor clutch was heard outside, and 
Ship Brooke, at the horsehair blind again, again put up his 
hand. The man of whom they were speaking and Everard 
Beckwith were slowing down in the car, and, descending the 
street again, came Bunny and Neill. Joe Warry knocked 
his pipe out and left the parlour. 

“ Ah, here he is ! ” Emney’s voice sounded outside. “ Order 
lunch at the 4 Racehorses ’ for Mr. Beckwith and me, Joe. — 
Won’t you join us, you two ? No ? Well, my remembrances 
to Sir John — good-bye ” 

The car passed up the street, and the two younger men 
down it. The landlord withdrew from the blind. 

“ Lunch at t’ ‘ Racehorses ' ! ” he said. “ T’ ‘ Racehorses * 
gets all t’ trade here ” 

He had a single spare room over the passage, and it was 
his grief that it was so seldom occupied. 


VIII 


“ T ’M becoming more and more doubtful about the whole 

X thing,” said Neill, looking from one to another of the 
photographs he held as if they were a hand at nap. 

“ My boots, Jim. ... Eh ? — Well, I told you it was a 
rotten job. Chuck it,” grunted Bunny. 

“ It’ll be nothing when it’s done ” 

“ People will say Murragh Neill’s going off in his work, 
that’s all.” 

Neill put the photographs down on the table. 

“ Well, don’t rub it in. You asked me to do it, you know.” 

“ I know,” growled Bunny, lacing busily. “ You needn’t 
rub that in either.” 

This was a fortnight after Neill's arrival. Jim Bright had 
laid cups and saucers for two on the little round table of the 
painting cottage, and was now rolling up a mattress and 
making concealment of a cheap iron bedstead that occupied 
one corner of the principal room. The open doorway framed 
a bright picture of sunlit heather. The place had been 
roughly tidied up. Stretchers and canvases and books and 
papers had been thrust against the walls ; bottles and old 
jam-pots with brushes in them had been pushed with the foot 
away into corners ; and a newspaper had been thrown over 
a miscellaneous litter that included a penny whistle and a 
shaving brush on which the soap of its last lathering had been 
allowed to dry. Bunny’s easel was turned face to the wall 
at one end of the room ; and at the other end, in a position 
carefully chosen as regarded the window, Neill had set up 
his work on an improvised turn-table made of wooden boxes. 
There was clay on the block Jim Bright used for chopping 
firewood, and an old cavalry sword had been slashed deep 

62 


COTTERDALE 


63 

into the lump. An iron kettle that swung from the hook 
over the handful of fire whimpered with increasing loudness. 

“ It’s your own choice that you go out, you know ; it 
isn’t necessary,” said Neill, as Bunny stamped his feet and 
rose. “I’m not going to catechise her — and it wouldn’t 
matter if I was.” 

“ Oh, I’ll go,” Bunny replied. 

“ Well, I’ll give you pawn and move this evening.” 

“ Right you are,” said Bunny, crossing to the door. 

But at the door he turned. “ I say, Murragh ” he 

said. 

“ Well ? ” 

“You might — you might — I hope you’ll ” He stopped. 

“ Hope I’ll what ? What ails you to-day ? ” 

But suddenly Bunny, with an “ Oh, it doesn’t matter — so 
long,” left. Neill changed his clay-caked working boots for 
a pair newly cleaned by Jim Bright, washed his hands at a 
bucket, dried them on a very damp towel, and then began 
to cut bread-and-butter. 

Berice’s figure darkened the doorway so soon after Bunny’s 
departure that Neill felt sure she must have met him ; but 
she had not. She had avoided Skirethorns, she explained — 
had felt like taking a longer walk — it was such a perfect day 
— she gave, in fact, an altogether unnecessary number of 
reasons. As a matter of fact the day was blazing hot ; she 
was on the point of exhaustion ; and, when all had been said, 
it remained unaccounted for that on the open moor, with no 
cover for a man except the horseshoe butts of peat, she! had 
missed Bunny. But Neill was already occupied with the 
kettle and the little earthenware teapot. 

“ Sit down at once, please,” he ordered. “ You’re tired 
out. And you’d be cooler if you took your hat off. Jim, 
open the other window. But perhaps you’d rather have tea 
outside ? ” 

“ No,” said Berice, dropping heavily into a chair. 

Neill poured out tea at once. Berice put aside the plate 
of bread-and-butter he offered, and sat with the cup of tea 
in her hand. Neill seemed afraid she was suffering from a 
touch of the sun. 


THE EXCEPTION 


64 

“ Drink it at once and let me fill it again,” he said. Then 
to himself, setting aside the sunstroke theory, he commented, 
“ Nerves out of order.” 

Those nerves of Berice’s were far worse disordered even 
than Neill supposed. Her fortnight at Undershaws had left 
its mark. She now started if Jim Bright chanced to put 
down a poker a little noisily, and winced if the sudden passing 
of a peewit sent a shadow flitting across the door. Her nerves, 
a fortnight before, had been as steady as steel. . . . 

The house itself had wrought on her almost as much as 
its two chief inmates. These, indeed, had but tapped drama- 
tically home, as it were, the thousand glances and whisperings 
of the place. They had but given an explicitness to implicit 
meanings of accusation and horror. In one sense Celia and 
Mrs. Finch-Ommaney had been supernumeraries — as the 
prompter is supernumerary to the caste. They had fulfilled 
their function when the shadowy drama had flagged, by 
supplying the word and giving the performance a fresh fillip. 
If, for example, during an hour spent in the billiard-room, 
Lionel’s favourite cue had failed to remind her of the dead 
hand that had polished it, there had been Celia’s involun- 
tary look and sigh — Mrs. Finch-Ommaney’s endless and un- 
reticent recollections. If an empty stall in the stable, a tree 
from which Lionel had once fallen, a cage or a trap Lionel 
had made, a rod or a bat Lionel had spliced, his dog Sammy, 
the heads of markhor on the walls, his schoolbooks in the 
garret, his broken toys, his room — if her spirit rested deaf 
to the call of these things for an hour, the mother and the 
sweetheart, each in her different way, had given the tap to 
attention and crammed it all into her ears again. That she 
might “ have something to remember Lionel by,” Celia had 
given her, after much deliberation, much turning over of 
mementoes, many little half-grantings and quick withdrawals 
as tender associations had recurred to her, a match-box, 
which she had heroically refused to accept back again ; and 
for mere safety from total distraction Berice had had to 
harden her heart against the barbed darts of the girl’s inno- 
cent babble. Once only since that first evening had Celia 
broken down utterly— Berice, indeed, could not but admire 


COTTERDALE 65 

that, her strength being so little, her courage should be so 
great ; but that once had been enough ; it had been an 
exquisite barb. The sobbed-out words still rang in her ears : 

Oh , if I could only say I was his widow Oh, 

Celia, don’t break all our hearts ! ” Berice had groaned in 
reply. . . . But Celia had not known the reason of the 
groan. . . . 

And Berice was past all compunction now that she dis- 
sected Mrs. Finch-Ommaney in these her heavy hours. 
She questioned their heaviness. She now erred as much on 
the side of ruthlessness as Everard had erred on the side of 
simplicity and credulity. She barely remembered that Mrs. 
Finch-Ommaney had, when all was said, lost an only son. 
She denied her even the measure of unforced emotion of 
which she was capable. Emotion ? Berice did not believe 
she felt any emotion ! She played an emotional part — a 
very different thing — but, Berice thought bitterly, never an 
act ended but she was quite capable of coming before the 
curtain and taking her bouquet with a smile ! Her tears 
dried with the dispersal of the audience ! Such women as 
she, Berice reflected miserably, gave way to the inordinateness 
of grief and then married again within the twelve months ! 

And during the past fortnight Mrs. Finch-Ommaney had 
played to a very full house indeed. As if already she feared 
the approach of satiety, she had begun to take her bereave- 
ment delicately, daintily, picking and choosing here and 
there among the tit-bits. . . . Berice remembered some of 
the tit-bits now. There had been exceedingly delectable 
morsels over the broken toys . . . there had been those 
choice bonnes-bouches, his old letters home . . . that “ Ah, 
Berice, you’d have understood my feelings better if things 
could only have been as I hoped ”... later, when Berice 
had been unable to conceal her suffering, that “ I’m not quite 
sure now that you knew him as well as I thought, Berice ” 
. . . later still, when Berice’s spirit had become still more 
crushed, that reproachful “ Poor Lionel ! And he was always 
so fond of you ! ” . . . Yes, no wonder that, after a fort- 
night of this, always so unexpectedly new, always so harrow- 
ingly and monotonously the same, nothing but Lionel, Lionel 

5 


66 


THE EXCEPTION 


and that old buried thing— no wonder that her nerves were 
out of order and that Murragh Neill should notice it ! 

The chair into which she had dropped had been that 
nearest to hand. It stood in direct sunlight, but rather 
than disturb her Neill drew the frayed old curtain. She had 
closed her eyes, and without opening them she murmured 
her thanks. Neill put a magazine into her hand that she 
might fan herself. 

But after her second cup of tea she seemed better. She 
opened her eyes again with a smile of apology for having 
caused him trouble ; then she lifted them to the cloth- 
swathed work that surmounted the structure of boxes. 

“ I see you’ve begun it,” she said. 

“ Oh,” he replied, “ there’s not much there that I couldn’t 
have done just as well in London — just finger-and- thumb 
work.” 

“ I suppose I may see it presently ? ” 

“You may if you like. But it doesn’t greatly matter. 
Rest for the present, anyway.” 

Chief among the ways Murragh Neill had of finding out 
things he wished to know was to refrain from pressing with 
questions. His removal of his clayey boots and modelling 
blouse had been but part of a general putting-off of every- 
thing that might have suggested that his purpose was in- 
quisitorial. His first glance at Berice had told him that it 
would have been better to reserve his inquiry by indirections 
until another occasion. But his second and third and subse- 
quent ones had told him more. Something was the matter with 
her. There was something towards which her attitude, let her 
make what concealments she liked, was one of hostility, of 
desperation, of helpless resentment that it had power over 
her while she had no control over it. He imagined he knew 
what that something was. He jumped to his conclusion. 

“ H’m ! Just as I supposed ! ” his thought ran. “ The 
mother’s been too much for her. I was afraid that was the 
way it would go . . . poor girl ! ” But when she spoke again 
he fancied he detected still more. Apparently the thing, 
whether it was the thing he thought or not, had so un- 
nerved her that she now desired to martyrize herself un- 


COTTERDALE 67 

necessarily. She seemed to have so far lost her head over 
it that, if she could not control it, she was willing to let it 
have its way with her. She could endure if she could not 
resist. 

“ Let me see,” she said, again lifting restless and pursued 
eyes, “ I was to be questioned, wasn’t I ? — Ah, no ; I’m 
forgetting ; I was just to talk — just to run on ” 

He felt that he must stop this, and with as little fuss as 
possible. His long hand made a gesture as if to calm or to set 
something aside. 

“ All in good time,” he said. “ Really there’s no need to 
press matters. Please put it out of your head for the pre- 
sent ; as a matter of fact I find I’m not quite so advanced 
with the work as I thought I should be. By and by. — Won’t 
you have some bread-and-butter now ? ” 

She took the piece he proffered and put it on her plate, 
but allowed it to remain there untouched. She gave a little 
fidgetty laugh. 

“ I should advise you to take things when you can get 
them. ‘ Souvent femme varie ,’ you know.” 

“Yes, yes,” he soothed her. “ All in good time. I cer- 
tainly shall ask you to help me, later ; but it doesn’t matter 
now. After all, you see, the things you’ll tell me won’t be 
of much use if they aren’t the things I want to know.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” she persisted impatiently, “ we’d 
better get it over — you’d better let me run on, if that’s the 
idea, and just tell you anything that comes into my head.” 

Still, in spite of her restlessness, she delayed to do so. . . . 

He sat, kneading his knuckles, a little set back in his 
calculations. He had chosen her for this service because he 
had assumed a certain detachment in her ; but actually, she 
was now less calm than either the mother or the betrothed 
had been. The persistence with which she hugged a thing 
that plainly caused her pain distressed him. He recalled 
the impression, one of sombreness and stagnation, he him- 
self had brought away from the house that had harboured 
her for the past fortnight ; he remembered that, too hastily 
perhaps, he had classed Mrs. Finch-Ommaney as a woman 
who quite conceivably might make much of a sorrow she 


68 


THE EXCEPTION 


felt she ought to feel ; and the other girl, Miss Chester, would 
hardly, he thought, be capable of more than a passive re- 
sistance to grief. And that these others might be helped, 
this exhausted woman in the chair— so much was plain — 
had devotedly placed her own strength and soundness at 
their disposal. No wonder she needed a rest ! . . . Well, 
she should rest that afternoon, at any rate. . . . 

And yet, Neill could not help thinking, that sacrifice and 
devotion, which might well have wearied her body, should 
not have had this effect on her mind. Sacrifice and devotion 
give, and do not take away, the inner peace of the soul. 
But it was precisely the lack of inner peace that now dis- 
tressed him in Miss Beckwith. Even the strain of the fort- 
night at Undershaws did not seem to explain that satis- 
factorily. . . . 

Then a swift and illuminating light broke in on Neill. . . . 
The explanation that leaped into his mind might not be 
probable, but it was at least a possible one, and he was 
suddenly humbled in his own eyes that he had not thought 
of it before. He felt guilty of an impertinence of thought 
even in formulating it to himself, but there it was, capable of 
explaining all, and, with a sort of full-grown vigour of its 
own now that it had tardily sprung into being, forcing itself 
upon him. Suppose that she too had loved him ? Suppose he 
had been entirely wrong in assuming that detachment in her ? 
Suppose — suppose — that she had been passed over for 
another during his life, had had the bittern .ss of seeing 
another preferred, and had kept the virginal faith of her 
heart and the freshness of her kisses for a man who had not 
wanted them ? If it was so, what a fool that man must 
have been to refuse the love of that heart, the utter giving 
of those unviolated lips ! To be loved by such a woman as 
this, and not + o love in return ! What a fool ! . . . And she 
was so fine that she could even go, now, to her sorrowing 
supplanter, without jealousy, without a single thought of 
herself, and say, “ Here I am — use me ! . . 

And how they must have used her, to have brought her 
into this state in a fortnight ! ... Yes, that supposition, 
if it was true, would account for much. ... And he himself 


COTTERDALE 


69 

was proposing to use her too, was proposing to thrust a 
finger into that peace of well-doing that, behind her prostra- 
tion, must possess her heart ! And it must, must be true ! 
Why, Bunny knew it was true ! That was what Bunny had 
meant by his blundering efforts to put an end to the whole 
thing. And, of course, Bunny, knowing all this, had had to 
keep her sacred secret. The only thing that puzzled Neill 
was why Bunny had allowed him to undertake the memorial 
at all. . . . 

Suddenly Neill looked up with glad and shining eyes. He 
had taken a resolution. He, at least, could refrain from 
further burdening that great heart of hers with his own 
paltry affairs. 

“ Perhaps/’ he said in a low voice, hardly daring to look 
at her, lest she should see the honour and reverence his eyes 
might shower upon her, “ perhaps, before we go any further, 
I ought to explain a little more clearly my methods of work- 
ing. I said a little the other day, but very little. I told you 
I’d hesitated before taking the thing on at all, and I may say 
that I’m still hesitating. If in the end I decide to throw it 
up I shall have to ask you to forgive me for having brought 
you up here this afternoon for nothing.” 

She looked at him in surprise. “ Throw it up ! ” she 
exclaimed. “ Why on earth should you throw it up ? ” 

He could not well tell her outright what his real reason 
was. He made as good a compromise as he could on the 
spur of the moment. 

“ I told you,” he continued, “ that that ” — he indicated 
the swathed beginning of the memorial — “ that that was 
mere finger-and-thumb work ; and I think I told you, too, 
that I don’t commonly do finger-and-thumb work. I sign 
my work, you see. And I go more or less deep down into 
whatever I undertake. There are . . . well, there are some 
depths I don’t care to go down into.” 

She didn’t quite follow. The whole subject was a little 
foreign to her. Depths ? What depths were those ? she 
wondered. . . . 

“ When I asked you if you’d be so good as to help me,” he 
continued, more haltingly, " I— well, perhaps I spoke rather 


THE EXCEPTION 


70 

hastily — without consideration. Perhaps I was rash — 

clumsy, perhaps — perhaps I am now ” 

At that, something deep-seated within her stirred in vague 
alarm. Rash ? Clumsy ? Why should he think himself 
rash or clumsy in speaking of Lionel Finch-Ommaney to her ? 

“ I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you,” she said, her 
heart suddenly filled with a desire for stronger support than 
it possessed. 

He dared not put it more plainly. In the blue eyes that 
were lifted to his all he saw was a slightly displeased look — 
such a look as there might come into eyes which, having 
desired to keep a good deed secret, suddenly saw it laid bare. 

“ Frankly,” she continued, “ you seem a little — you must 
forgive my saying it — a little over-considerate. One would 
think you saw a special reason why I should be spared some- 
thing — I can only put it in that way. If that’s so, please put 
the idea out of your head. My pulse is really quite steady ; 
I assure you there’s really no need for all this delicacy, if it 
is that ” 

She rose abruptly. Actually her pulse was far from steady. 
She crossed to his work, and took up the photographs he had 
held like a hand at nap. Again a distress filled him. She 
was plainly acting out of some kind of mistaken bravado, 
and, while good deeds ought perhaps to be hidden as long as 
possible, this manner of hiding them was new — and Neill 

hoped it would not become customary 

“ Look,” she said, turning the photographs over, as if she 
wished to bring the purpose of her call forward at once and 
have done with it. “ There’s this one, for instance. If I 
understand you, I’m to point out which were the most like 
him, and why. Well, there’s this one. He’s got a Service 
cap in this, but — but I don’t know that it hides anything 
especially godlike. In general expression it’s very good, as 
you can see by its resemblance to his mother. His colour 
was ruddier than hers, and his hair almost black. If his 

height is of any consequence ” 

Neill was suffering. He began a gesture, which she dis- 
regarded. She continued with a suppressed bitterness that 
the calm of her manner only emphasised. 


COTTERDALE 


7 1 

“ — for his height, he was a couple of inches taller than 
Bunny, but he hadn’t Bunny’s shoulders, of course — though 
I don’t know why I should say ‘ of course,’ since it’s all news 
to you. When he walked he had a way of ” 

“ Miss Beckwith ! ’’Neill began, with a voice slightly 

raised. 

“Or is it more his mental beauty you want ? As you 
please. For that, too, you can take his mother as a model, 
with certain modifications ” 

But Neill had risen, crossed over to the hearth, and stood 
looking down into the fire with his back to her. His attitude 
suggested deafness to anything further she might say, until 
she should be pleased to have done with this display. He 
was increasingly in pain. His hypothesis was slipping away 
from him, to his bitter disappointment. What she was 
showing now was not a modest and lovely cover for love and 
service and devotion, but something capable of a much 
balder interpretation — mere resentment and unrestraint and 
breaking down. . . . 

“ Mr. Neill,” she called, still playing the rather pitiful 
comedy. 

Neill returned abruptly from the hearth. 

“ I was going to tell you about his eyes — full, dark brown, 
but more beautiful somehow the first time you saw them 
than afterwards ” 

“ Miss Beckwith,” said Neill almost sternly, “ do you 
mind not doing this ? ” 

The weight of the frown on his fine and houndlike face 
was almost palpable. Berice saw it, and suddenly felt herself 
fail under it. Only up to a certain point, and under certain 
restricted conditions, was she an actress ; beyond that point, 
the role was sunk in the woman. Swiftly, and for the first 
time, she now saw what she was doing — saying at once too 
little and too much. Recklessly she had rushed almost to a 
brink. Without looking where she was going, she had gone 
in mind back to those distant, dreadful days of years ago 
when lies and half-lies and quarter-lies, spoken or looked or 
implied by silences, had made a twilight of the atmosphere 
she had breathed. She now drew in her breath as she realized 


THE EXCEPTION 


72 

sharply. Was all that to begin over again ? Was she to go 
back to that horror ? Was the flesh to heal, but the scar 
ever mysteriously to remain ? . . . Was her runaway tongue 
taking her back to all that ? . . . 

And what was this stranger behind her even now think- 
ing ?.. . 

And with that thought she felt her whole nature suddenly 
stiffen to resistance. It was not, be it understood, an open 
and avowed resistance, but that subtler and more formidable 
resistance of woman that seems a yielding. Mr. Neill think ? 
Let him but give her a hint and she would take very good 
care of what Mr. Neill should think ! ... For one moment 
only there came to her thoughts the wearisomeness of the 
harking-back on her life it was ; but what she had done once 
she could do again. Whether the lie was to be the half or the 
quarter, explicitly uttered or allowed to go by implication, 
she did not know yet ; that would necessarily depend on 
what was in this man’s mind ; and before she could even 
find out what that was she must first compose her voice 
to the proper degree of ordinariness. 

“ All this seems to me rather extraordinary, Mr. Neill,” she 
said presently. “ Tell me — tell me honestly — why you won’t 
ask me things now that you were ready enough to ask a 
fortnight ago ? ” 

The ground was cut from under his feet. What his respect 
had avoided, her fear had plunged them into. He could 
only murmur something about ‘A fortnight? — Why not 
a year ? — Or an hour ? — Time wasn’t really measured that 
way ’ 

“ A fortnight ago,” she pressed him, “ you thought there 
were things you might ask me that you preferred not to ask 
his mother or his sweetheart. I should have thought that 
was so still.” 

At that Neill’s heart became suddenly confirmed in its 
honouring hypothesis again. That, after all, was the point ; 
she had sacrificed herself to the mother and sweetheart. 
Very likely, he thought, she had caught at the first cloak 
for her goodness that had offered, and if that had happened 
to be that distasteful bravado its use was none the less 


COTTERDALE 


73 

sanctioned by her intention. By whatever means, she kept 
her secret bravely. . . . His eyes again offered her homage. 

“ You were very, very great friends,” he murmured, trust- 
ing her to jump at his meaning. 

But she did not see yet where he stood. “ Well ? ” she 
demanded. 

At that he broke out. “ And can’t you conceive that since 
I last saw you I have ... oh, you good woman, won’t you 
take a beautiful thing as said ? . . .” 

For an instant Berice opened her eyes very wide ; the 
next she had seen — seen that wonderful hypothesis of his. 
It almost took her breath away. What ! He thought she had 
waited pathetically for the word that had been spoken only 
to another ! That ! It was actually because he thought 
her wonderful, selfless, magnanimous, that he sat there 
silent, kneading his knuckles between his knees ! How 
beautiful ! . . . 

The hateful cloud that had loomed up for a moment out 
of the past receded again ; she was calm now ; she saw how 
little it needed to banish that stale horror. What this man 
supposed to be true of her would serve her purpose to ad- 
miration ; and it was he who put it forward, not she. . . . 

Suddenly she told the lie. It needed no word. She told it 
by a silence and a dropping of her head. Let him think that, 
then . . . 

It was she who broke the long silence that followed. It 
was necessary to know whether or not she had lied to the 
purpose. She did not wish to have it to do twice. 

“ Well,” she murmured, with downcast eyes, “ we needn’t 
make a fuss about it. You’re quite mistaken in supposing 
there’s anything extraordinary about it. I admit I was 
rather upset when I came in ; it’s not always very easy 
over there, after all . . . but I’m all right now. You were 
quite right in forbidding me to talk, but I’m all right now. 
And now may I see the portrait ? ” 

She felt ‘ all right now.’ The old anodyne had brought her 
ease. She approached the shrouded memorial. It was 
with reluctance that Neill uncovered it ; and after a few 
minutes he covered it again. 


THE EXCEPTION 


74 

“ I don’t understand it, of course,” she said, “ but I hope 
you won’t give it up.” 

There was no need now for him to say that, whatever he 
would have done or refused to do for others, it sufficed that 
she should express a wish. She was making ready to leave. 
She adjusted her hat before Bunny’s mirror, and then, 
seeing that he also was reaching for his hat, turned. 

“ Do you mind if I ask you not to come with me? ” she 
said. “ I shall get my uncle to drive me over from Skire- 
thorns.” 

“ You’d prefer it ? ” 

“ Yes,” she replied, holding out her hand. He smiled 
gravely as he took it. 

“ Portraiture, as I practise it, involves a good many 
things,” he remarked. 

“ It appears so,” she said softly ; and made all sure by 
adding, “ Privacies among them. Good-bye ” 

She left, and he, re-entering the painting cottage, poured 
himself out a cup of cold tea, less, apparently, for the purpose 
of drinking it than that he might sit and look at it. 

That Neill had not accompanied Berice gave, as it hap- 
pened, Harrison Emney an opportunity. He had walked up 
to the trout pool which Berice must pass on her return. 
But for the uncertainty whether he had seen her, Berice 
would have waited in one of the breast-high butts of peat 
until he had gone ; she wanted to be alone, but across a 
quarter of a mile of heather she saw his hand go to his cap. 
She could only go forward to meet him. No matter. It 
only meant company that she did not at all desire just then 
as far as Skirethorns. . . . 

Presently she came up with him. 

But he seemed oddly untalkative, and, by the time they 
had reached the Pool, had ceased entirely to talk. He stopped, 
and they stood looking over the water. 

Then he turned towards her. 

“ May I beg for just a few minutes ? ” he asked. He spoke 
huskily and nervously, and had to repeat his question. . . . 

By the time he had said twenty words it appeared that 


COTTERDALE 


75 

what he wanted the few minutes for was to ask for Berice’s 
hand in marriage. This must be stopped instantly. It was 
a contingency, whoever the man might be who should pro- 
vide the instance, on which her mind had long been made up, 
and it must end on the spot, at once and for ever. The 
matter was so immediate that it became almost beside the 
mark that he was offering her the dearest thing a man may 
offer. Not one syllable more could she hear. . . . 

“It is impossible — impossible — please understand that, 
now and always, it is impossible ! ” slie said, with an energy 
that startled him. 

“ But ” 

She almost struck at the air in her attempt to show him 
the finality of it. 

“ And I can’t even tell you why it is so.” she cried. 

He took a step back. 

“ There is — somebody ? ” 

Neither that nor any other question would she answer. 
He had not thought she had such peremptoriness in her. 

“You may walk back with me on the condition you don’t 
say one word further about this,” she said. “Otherwise I 
must go alone. I haven’t said I’m sorry ; I am, deeply 
sorry ; but it’s so impossible that I must risk appearing 
brutal rather than that you shouldn’t understand. I do 
thank you — I thank you from my heart — I’ll write and tell 
you so if you like — but that’s all — all ! . . . Will you walk 
with me, or shall I go alone ?.” 

He realized that another word would drive her from him 
in headlong flight. But he knew also what impossibilities 
are. Time sometimes resolves them. . . . His reddish brown 
eyes seemed moist. He muttered : 

“I see I’ve hit my hour unfortunately. I shall ask you 
again.” 

“ No other hour will be any more fortunate,” she replied, 
and added, “ You can, of course, drive me away from here. . . .” 

They set out^to walk again, he silent, she with the old 
burden and weariness that for a space had lifted closing 
down and making its home about her heart again. 


IX 


I T is the parasitic nature of a lie that it lives only by the 
consent and unsuspicion of those who do not lie. It does 
not make any difference whether the cleanness and sound- 
ness from which it derives its sustenance be in others or in 
ourselves ; that it may live, something better suffers. And, 
until the corrupt growth shall have so spread that it out- 
weighs the soundness, the liar himself is conscious of this. 
Had Neill appeared for one instant to doubt her, Berice 
would have been angry — and more at her ease ; as it was, 
she felt only the pang of his perfect trust. She could have 
found it in her heart, too, almost to hate him for his un- 
conscious complicity in the untruth. All unknowing, he had 
dangled before her eyes the temptation she was least able 
to resist, and, when she had clutched desperately at that 
precious hypothesis of his, he had humiliated her with his 
homage. She would find it hard to forgive him that. 

And even this twinge, of honour falsified and a sweet thing 
tainted, took on an added sharpness from accumulations of 
the past ; for, while the past was in fact past, the memory 
of it was a current experience. It was with a stab of anguish 
that, for the first time in her life, she found herself wondering 
whether the past was ever past. Was there such a thing, 
after all, as that Moral Statute of Limitations that had pre- 
sented itself so alluringly to her— or had she merely found it 
convenient to assume its existence without too many ques- 
tions ? Was Nemesis ever nonsuited, or was that supposed 
nonsuiting merely a serviceable falsity, clutched at by men 
in order that the continuance of their lives should be made 
possible ? A blurred picture seemed to rise before her eyes. 
An end of twig, cast into a mountain pool, was driven under 

76 


COTTERDALE 


77 

by a fall, rose again, descended with the current for a little 
way, and then, as if guided by a relentless and invisible Hand, 
travelled slowly up the backwash again. Had she also 
reached the point where the current and the backwash of 
her life met ? Was she, too, hanging and wavering while 
freer lives went forward ? Was she also, instead of being 
rid of it all, in reality only beginning it all over again ? . . . 

It was significant that her unexpected meeting with Emney 
had only a secondary place in her thoughts. She was sorry 
for him, but that affair had, of course, been settled before 
ever it had come up. She remembered again now her old 
determination of what, in such an event, her course must be. 
That determination did not include never marrying, but it 
did include the only terms on which marriage was possible 
for her. There at least no lie must have any place. No 
marriage of hers should be based on concealments and im- 
plications, and that resolve presupposed certain things in 
the man who might come even so near to her as to be at last 
refused. With the vast mass of men she would have declined 
even the negative connection of being put into such a position 
that she must let them know that there was something they 
might not know. Emney had been included beforehand in 
this number. . . . 

And though she had foreseen that events might take this 
turn, she had not expected it to come so soon. . . . 

She had entered Undershaws by a side door, had gone 
quickly upstairs by a secondary staircase, and had thrown 
herself, still hatted, into a chair in her bedroom. Presently, 
she knew, she would be called on by Mrs. Finch-Ommaney to 
give an account of what had passed between herself and 
Neill at the painting cottage. Again she strove to see clearly 
what it was that actually had passed. 

And the more she turned it over, the more plainly one 
thing appeared. It was a disturbing consideration to stand 
out so clearly from everything else, and her brow was haggard 
as she faced it. It was, simply, that if ever she should be 
betrayed it would probably be herself who would be her 
betrayer. Berice Beckwith would give Berice Beckwith 
away. So far, thanks to Murragh Neill and his hypothesis, 


7 8 THE EXCEPTION 

thanks to Bunny and his blunt loyalty, she had escaped ; 
Neill had the gentle stamp, and Bunny the faithful one ; 
but she shivered at the thought of how she might fare were 
she ever to be thrown in with men who were not Bunny 
Hartopps and Murragh Neills. . . . And they would be the 
little things that would trip her. Against great emergencies 
she could steel herself ; but great emergencies come with 
comparative infrequency ; the things to be feared in life 
were its absurd, little, neglected, casual surprises. Any 
moment, unless she could live always surrounded by loyalty 
and gentleness — unless that unsound thing in her should 
have soundness to feed on — one of these might take her by 
the heels. 

Again her thoughts turned to the account of her afternoon 
that must be prepared for Mrs. Finch-Ommaney, and she 
flung herself back wearily in her chair. With her return to 
Undershaws she had taken up her hateful load again, and 
again she felt the miserable anger and resentment rising 
within her, driving out all charity and mercy. She wondered 
dully how much more of it she could stand. Not the majesty, 
but the sentimentality of Death lay like a cloud over the 
house, and again Berice let her impatience have its head. . . . 
Granted that Mrs. Finch-Ommaney had lost a son ; granted 
that in the presence of grief tongues must be silent ; Berice 
could nevertheless have ground her teeth over the self-love, 
the self- pity, the se//-exposure of it all. Mrs. Finch-Ommaney 
made an open display of an appalling moral slackness. This 
display had reached its climax two days before with the 
arrival of a letter by the Indian mail. For the last two nights 
Mrs. Finch-Ommaney had dined alone in her room, and, 
when the two girls had met her in other parts of the house, 
only the scantiest details of the letter had passed her lips. 
To-night she was coming down into the dining-room again. 
Berice groaned. Oh, how she wished it was all over ! . . . 

The sound of the first gong brought Berice to her feet, 
and, as if the physical movement had cut off her heavy 
train of thought, she suddenly found herself again remem- 
bering that she had had an offer of marriage that afternoon. 
And something in the manner of it struck her for the 


COTTERDALE 


79 

first time rather oddly. She pondered this as she dressed 
slowly. . . . 

Technically, of course, it had not happened while she had 
been a guest under Emney’s roof ; he could certainly urge 
that in his own defence ; but it was a rather ambiguous 
doubt to claim the benefit of. Yes, now that she thought of 
it, the thing was more than a little surprising ; and she 
remembered a story of her uncle, an old family story. Everard 
had come into his property during Berice’s grandmother’s 
lifetime, and it had happened — this was years ago — that 
he had fallen in love with a girl who had been staying in the 
house. Everard had kept the matter to himself ; he had been 
host* not lover ; and he had followed the girl to London 
after her departure, that he might say elsewhere what he 
would not say within his own walls. Perhaps his scrupulous- 
ness had been no more than a jacket in another form, but, 
Berice thought, the best part of Life does not consist in too 
much scorn for jackets. She did not believe that Ev’s love 
had been any less because he had refused to snatch. . . . 
Well, well : perhaps it only showed that Everard was not 
Emney ; but perhaps it showed something larger than 
could be included in the nature of either man. The little 
splash of their departure from Skirethorns had made ripples 
that had reached as far as the “ Cotterdale Arms,” but 
perhaps that splash itself was only the remote ripple of a 
vaster disturbance — the passing of a whole period and tradi- 
tion. Yesterday the Beckwiths had been lords of their hour ; 
to-day the Emneys were the masters ... no new discovery 
after all — merely a little newly forced on Berice’s atten- 
tion. . . . 

She finished her dressing and went down to dinner. 

She was a little early after all. Mrs. Finch-Ommaney had 
not yet come down, and Celia stood waiting for her, looking 
down into the fire. She turned to Berice the moment she 
entered, and spoke without preface. 

“ Berice,” she said in an agitated voice, “I’ve seen that 
letter.” 

Berice’s hand stopped midway in the adjusting of a scarf. 

“ The Indian one ? ” 


8o 


THE EXCEPTION 


“ Yes. It comes from a man called Walker, the military 

chaplain. It seems that — that poor Lionel ” she choked 

a little. 

“ Don’t talk of it, dear,” Berice besought her. It was 
quite enough that he was dead, without going into the manner 
of it. 

“ Oh, I’m not thinking of myself — I’m thinking of mother 
— I can bear it — but — but — he didn’t die at once — he was 
brought down — this Walker was with him when he died — 
the letter is full of it ” 

Berice frowned in sharp distaste. “ Full of it ? ” 

“ Yes — a long detailed account ” 

“ Detailed ! What sort of details ? ” Berice demanded. 
Surely the opportunity had not been seized for . . . de- 
scriptive writing ! . . . 

“ Oh, everything ! ” Celia moaned. 

“ Good gracious ! . . . I wonder what kind of man this 
Mr. Walker can be ! . . . And she’s keeping it, of course.” 

“ Oh, yes ; she adores it. . . . Sssh ! Here she is ” 

Mrs. Finch-Ommaney entered, and they moved at once 
to the table. 

A glance at Mrs. Finch-Ommaney had been quite enough 
to set Berice once more wondering whether it would not be 
better to write that letter to Emily Tracy at once and have 
herself fetched away. She could do no good here. More- 
over, if what Celia had just told her was true, there were 
possibilities of torture ahead that would leave her no course 
but that of ignominious flight. She had no intention of 
suffering crucifixion over the contents, whatever they might 
be, of that letter. And about another thing there was no 
longer any doubt : whether she had hitherto wronged Mrs. 
Finch-Ommaney or not by questioning the reality of her 
grief, it was plain enough now that she had quite abandoned 
herself to the mere epicureanism of it. The V of black lace 
was arranged almost coquettishly over her marquise hair ; 
a smile, as if at secret things, lurked from time to time about 
her rather voluptuous lips ; her health appeared to be ex- 
cellent and her appetite, in spite of the way in which she 
pushed away scarcely touched plates, good ; and Berice had 


COTTERDALE 


81 

the idea that she dallied with her thoughts and her food in 
much the same fashion, now in degustation of a tangy 
savoury, now allowing herself the stimulus of a draught of 
wine. She watched her for a minute or two, and then bent 
her eyes upon her own plate and kept them there. She had 
made up her mind that if that letter was brought up she 
would at all risks speak plainly. 

But Mrs. Finch-Ommaney made no mention of the letter. 
When she did speak it was to ask the expected question about 
Berice’s visit to Neill. What little there was to report Berice 
reported briefly. She did not tell Mrs. Finch-Ommaney 
that Neill had thought of throwing the job up. 

“ And when are you going to see him again, dear ? ” she 
asked. 

“ We didn’t arrange,” said Berice. “ He hardly appears 
to be ready yet.” 

“ He’s waiting for inspiration, I suppose,” Mrs. Finch- 
Ommaney murmured, with dropped lids and smiling mouth. 
“ Ah, if I could only give him mine ! . . . Tell me, darling : 
were you very conscious of — our lost one — this afternoon ? 
I mean, did you feel as I felt, that he was — hovering near, 
so to speak ? ” 

Berice murmured some reply, and sought to change the 
subject : but Mrs. Finch-Ommaney held steadfastly to her 
course. 

“ Because,” she continued, tl the fancy came to me — 
perhaps it was ridiculous, but I’m sure you’ll understand — 
I imagined that he was very, very close to me — a sort of 
presence, if you understand me . . . and it’s no more than 
they say when they tell you that you can make somebody 
turn round by thinldng fixedly of them, you know. ...” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Berice shortly, 
and Celia, too, interposed with a “ Mother, dear ” 

But Mrs. Finch-Ommaney went placidly on. 

“ I cannot, cannot believe that all my thought will be 
allowed to go for nothing. Prayers are heard, you know, 
and it’s — it’s really very much the same sort of thing. . . . 
Many things are hidden from us — there is a reason behind all 
things — and not. a sparrow falls, you know, my dears. . . . 

6 


82 THE EXCEPTION 

But forgive me for talking like this. You are young and happy 
— let us talk about something else. ...” 

She took the credit of this last proposal to herself— which 
Berice would have allowed her had she carried it into effect ; 
but within five minutes she had returned to the subject 
again. 

“ Mr. Neill didn’t mention, did he, dear, that he was con- 
scious of any — I don’t know how to put it — of any knocking 
at the door, as it were — any helpful influence ? ” 

Berice pushed her plate away with a certain quickness. 

“ He didn’t say anything about it,” she said. “ I’m not 
quite sure, either, that I know what you mean. But, dear 
Mrs. Finch-Ommaney, there’s something I should like to say 
if I might. I’ve been going to say it for days. It’s this : 
that Celia and I can’t help you much unless — unless you 
make an effort to help yourself. Isn’t that so, Celia ? ” 

“ Oh, do, mother, dear ! ” Celia implored. 

A glance, the quickest imaginable, had shot under the 
dark fringes of Mrs. Finch-Ommaney ’s lids ; but in a twink- 
ling her eyes were downcast again. She spoke with great 
mildness, as a person speaks who is resolved to be patient under 
no matter what aggravation. 

“ I don’t think you understand a mother’s thoughts, 
Berice. None but a mother can, of course. I don’t mean 
that you haven’t been perfectly sweet and considerate : 
you’ve been a great comfort to me, both of you : and I 
dare say after all that I expect too much. You’ll come to 
understand better. ...” 

Berice spoke quietly, but firmly. 

“ I understand — forgive me — that this is a little unhealthy 
in you. It would be so much better if you walked more, or 
if you got away entirely for a little while ! Won't you go 
away for a change ? Oh, I wish you would — we both wish 
you would ! And think of the good it would do Celia ! ” 

“ There is love and remembrance wherever we go,” Mrs. 
Finch-Ommaney said, with tranquil reproach. “If you 
should ever have a little one of your own in your arms ” 

“ Oh, do, do go away somewhere ! ” Berice implored 
again. “ This is simply losing your hold on everything ! 


COTTERDALE 83 

It’s breaking down — something not quite pleasant to think 
of — it’s — it’s positively irreligious ! ” 

Mrs. Finch-Ommaney blandly raised her arched brows. 
“ Irreligious, Berice ? ” she murmured. 

“Well, it’s — you must forgive my saying so — it’s dread- 
fully — lax.” 

“ Irreligious, Berice ! *’ 

She murmured the word again to herself. “ Irreligious ! . . .” 
She was exquisitely shocked ; her dear Berice say that ! 
Really, she could hardly believe she had heard aright ! . . . 

Berice knew that a hostility between herself and Mrs. 
Finch-Ommaney was already born. 

“ But surely, Berice, darling,” the mother murmured 
presently, “ that is precisely what it is not ! I can’t think 
you’re serious ! Surely it is the very, very opposite ! Haven’t 
they some new name for it that signifies the very opposite ? ” 

“ Some new name for what ? ” Berice asked. 

There was no hurrying Mrs. Finch-Ommaney to her point, 
whatever it was. 

“ Why, darling, for what we’re talking about. I dare say 
you know far more about such things than I do — modern 
thought, I mean — you’re young, and very likely I get things 
mixed up — but don’t they call it Christian Science ? Or is 
there nothing in that ? ” 

It was with difficulty that Berice restrained a blunt and 
downright “Oh, Lord ! . . .” 

“ But perhaps I’m thinking of Spiritualism,” Mrs. Finch- 
Ommaney murmured evenly. . . . 

With a great effort Berice mastered herself. 

“ But, dear Mrs. Finch-Ommaney, if you persist in this 
what is the good of Celia and myself being here to 
distract you ? ” she cried, with a sudden outspreading of 
her hands. 

So equably came Mrs. Finch-Ommaney ’s reply that Berice 
sought in vain which of two interpretations to give to it. 
“ But you do distract me, dear ! . . .” 

They finished dinner almost in silence ; but in the drawing- 
room it almost seemed as if Mrs. Finch-Ommaney had re- 
solved to pursue Berice with the distasteful subject. Again 


THE EXCEPTION 


84 

she referred to the memorial, and again Berice sought to 
turn her thoughts by multiplying her material attentions. 
She told herself that to give way to irritation was to prove 
herself of little better stuff than this weak-minded woman, 
who, properly handled, had in her the makings of a first-class 
mooning ecstatic. 

“ Perhaps, dear, I did mix things up a little,” Mrs. Finch- 
Ommaney crooned, as if resolved that any unreasonableness 
there might exist should be all Berice ’s. “ Of course, Chris- 
tian Science isn't the same thing as Spiritualism. I’m afraid 
I don’t know the precise difference — there are so many of 
these cults — is it cults ? ... Yes, I confess I’m a little 
vague about them, but they seem to me to have the same 
general idea underlying them. ... Do you really think 
there’s anything in Communication ? ” 

“ In ? ” Berice did not quite comprehend. 

“ In Communication. Not necessarily table-rapping, of 
course. ...” 

It might have been half deliberately said, for purposes of 
provocation ; it might have actually shown approximately 
the trend of her thought ; all was one ; it was too much for 
Berice. In one corner of the drawing-room was an escri- 
toire. Quickly Berice rose and crossed to it. Mrs. Finch- 
Ommaney was dreamily smiling again, head back and eyes 
closed. 

“ What are you doing, dear ? ” she asked presently, 
opening her eyes for a moment. 

“I’m looking for a pen,” Berice replied. “ I want to 
write a letter.” 

“ But the letters are collected. Won’t it do in the morn- 
ing ? ” 

It would have done equally well in the morning, for the 
letter Berice wanted to write was the one to Emily Tracy, 
to ask her to take her away from Undershaws. But even in 
the act of drawing up her chair she changed her mind and 
pushed it away again, a little ashamed of her own petulance. 
She returned to Mrs. Finch-Ommaney’s side. . . . 

“ Yes, darling, write it in the morning,” the mother mur- 
mured. “ I’m sure you’re tired to-night. ...” 


COTTERDALE 85 

But Berice had sunk to her knees. She turned up an 
imploring face. 

“ Oh, do, do, do put these horrid thoughts away ! ” she 
pleaded, taking Mrs. Finch-Ommaney’s hand. “ Celia and 
I will do anything, anything for you, if you’ll only help 
yourself a little ! Let us take you away — we’ll all go — 
we’ll go to Bournemouth — the Isle of Wight — anywhere, 
just the three of us — we’ll go at once — do say you will ! ” 
She made little appealing pressures of the hand as she talked. 

“ What dear, attentive children I have ! ” Mrs. Finch- 
Ommaney murmured. . . . “ But I wonder why you called 
it ‘ irreligious,’ Berice ? ” 

“Will you come away next week, with Celia and me ? ” 

“ Surely not just at once, Berice ! ” 

“Yes, at once — please, please ! ” 

Mrs. Finch-Ommaney stroked Berice’s hair with her 
other hand. She dropped her lids again and smiled enigmati- 
cally. 

“It might be a very good idea ; we will talk about it. . . . 
Speaking of letters, by the way, did you get the one that 
came this afternoon ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Oh, then it must be still waiting for you in the hall.” 

Still Berice persisted, and Celia added her entreaties. 

“ But you will come away ? ” 

“ We’ll talk about it, dear. Won’t you get your letter ? ” 

Berice, entering that afternoon by the side door and going 
straight to her room, had missed the table with the letters 
on it. She rose from her knees with a sigh, and rang the 
bell for her letter. It was brought. As she took it she noticed 
that the writing was Emily Tracy’s. She opened and read 
it. It ran : 

“ Darling Berice, 

“ What do you think ? Father’s suddenly taken it 
into his head to rush the whole family off to Norway for the 
rest of the summer. We start on Monday. I do wish you 
could have come too, but it was quite impossible ; we shall 
be three in a bed most likely as it is. (Do you remember 


86 


THE EXCEPTION 


Joe Warry that day, when he said we were ' as throng as 
three in a bed ’ ?) This is just a line, as I’ve fifty things to do 
in about four minutes. Much love from all of us. 

“ Your ever affectionate friend, 

“ Em. 

“ P.S. — Isn’t this perfectly awful about poor Lionel Finch- 
Ommaney ? We saw it in the Times. I’m so sorry we couldn’t 
manage one extra for Norway, but you will come and stay 
with us as soon as we get back, won’t you ? ” 


X 


C HECK/’ said Neill, as he slid a bishop up the board. 
. . . “You saw that, didn’t you ? Have it back if 
you like, but there’s not much else to do.” 

“ I resign,” said Bunny. 

“ This is where you went wrong.” Quickly Neill reset a 
position. “ Here — this is your best move ; then you wouldn’t 
have had that thorn in your side all along.” He pointed to 
a doubled pawn. . . . “ Care for another game ? ” 

“ Anything you like.” 

The board was reset, the opening moves made, and the 
chess silence fell. Bunny leaned back in his chair while 
Neill crouched over the game. It was some minutes later 
that Neill, looking up, hinted, “ Your move.” 

“ Eh ? I beg your pardon. I thought it was yours ” 

He made a move, and Neill crouched again. 

“ Ah ! ” he said presently. “You really mean that ? Very 
well. Check. . . . But I say : you’re tired ; this position’s 
merely stupid ; let’s drop chess and talk.” 

“ Anything ” 

The chess table was pushed back to the wall of the little 
smoking-room. 

“ By the way,” said Neill, “ what was that you were going 
to say this afternoon, just as you went out ? You were 
going to say something. ‘ I might — you hoped ’ — something 
or other ” 

Bunny gave a yawn and a stretch. 

“ Was I ? I don’t remember.” 

“ Oh, yes, you do ; just as you were leaving ” 

“ Oh, about Berice Beckwith ! I was only going to say 
that I hoped you’d remember she’d probably had as much 

87 


88 


THE EXCEPTION 


of it as she could stand over there at Ridsdale. But it was 
what she came for, I suppose, so . . Bunny gave a 
shrug. 

“ I see,” said Neill, nodding. Then he added, after a 
minute in which the pattern of the lid of the tobacco jar 
on the mantelpiece seemed to engross him, “ I don’t think, 
if I’d known just how it was, that I should have asked her.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

Neill looked hard at Bunny for a moment, and then at the 
lid of the tobacco jar again ; then he felt behind him for a 
chair, drew it up, and sat down. 

“ Oh, for the same reason you give — that she’s already 
had as much of it as she could stand,” he replied quietly. 

Bunny had sat down in a deep chair with large ears, and Neill 
could only see the pipe of him sticking out beyond the curve. 
Had he been able to see more he would have noticed the 
look of trepidation that had come into Bunny’s face. Neill’s 
words, by his manner of pronouncing them, had been as much 
a question as a statement, and it had seemed to Bunny that 
what Neill had really asked had been whether he might assume 
a certain knowledge on his, Bunny’s, part also. 

“ Oh, is that all ! ” Bunny grunted from behind the lug of 
his chair. 

“ That’s all,” said Neill. He spoke the words invitingly 
into the air. 

“ I see. . . . You mean, that isn’t all ? ” Bunny asked. 

“ I mean what I say — to exactly the same extent that you 
do,” Neill replied. 

There was a silence, during which Neill appeared interested 
in nothing on earth so much as in the polish of the bowl of 
his pipe. It was Bunny who spoke next. 

“ Well ? ” he demanded. 

“ Well,” Neill murmured to the pipe bowl, “ well . . . 
that’s about all, isn’t it ? Shall we play chess again ? ” 

It was about all, short of open and deliberate discussion — 
dissection, perhaps — of the person named. If inviting begin- 
nings were not taken up chess might just as well be played — 
better, perhaps. 

" In a minute,” said Bunny. . . . 


COTTERDALE 


89 

But Bunny’s minute lengthened itself out into several 
minutes, and still he had not risen to wheel up the chess 
table again. Bunny knew Neill. His gentleness he never 
doubted, but his cleverness he feared exceedingly. Why 
had he thought fit to raise this subject, and what had he 
meant by that sudden breaking off again ? What had hap- 
pened that afternoon that Neill should seem thus to take 
for granted that Bunny already knew something he himself 
had recently learned ? There must be many such things, of 
course ; but Neill’s manner had seemed to particularize. 
What did Neill know, or think he knew, that assumptions 
and silences and reticences should as much as be raised ? 
It was of the greatest consequence, if Bunny was to be of 
service, that he should not be ignorant of anything that was 
going on. . . . 

“ What do you mean ? ” he demanded abruptly. “ What 
do you really mean ? ” 

Neill turned to the little silver mounting of his pipe. 

“ Mean ? ” he said with aggravating slowness. . . . 
“ What do you suppose I mean ? . . . I mean, of course, 
that while the other seems a very gentle and sweet girl, 
there’s simply no comparison.” 

Bunny sat for a moment forward, and looked round the 
lug of the chair. 

“ The other ? What other ? What are you talking about ? ” 

Neill gave him a look and turned to the pipe again. 

“ Miss Chester, of course. What other should I mean ? ” 

“ Miss Chester ? ” said Bunny in surprise, relapsing into 
his sheltering chair again. “ You’re a queer chap, Murragh ! 

. . . What on earth makes you bracket ’em together like 
that ? ” 

“ Bracket ’em together ? That’s just what I wasn’t 
doing.” 

“ That’s just what you were doing.” 

“ Was I ? ” said Neill with a detached air. “ It’s in your 
mind the bracketing exists, then, not in mine. But let’s 
be plain. All that I mean, in one word, is that I think Miss 
Beckwith is magnificent. Have you got that ? ” 

Bunny had not quite got it. 


90 


THE EXCEPTION 


“ Magnif ” he began to echo, not immediately, but 

after some moments ; and then stopped. 

“Yes,” said Neill. . . . " Turn your chair a bit if we’re to 
talk. I can’t see you.” 

“ Humph ! ” said Bunny, not, however, moving his 
chair. ... 

He was entirely puzzled. He was wondering, not where 
Berice’s magnificence came in, but what the explanation 
could be of this sudden conviction of Neill’s of that magnifi- 
cence. He would have asked Neill outright what she had 
said to give him that conviction, but remembered that it 
did not of necessity follow that she had said anything at all. 
It was exceedingly perplexing, and it was becoming each 
moment more imperative that he should know all there was 
to know. 

“ Why, don’t you think so ? ” came Murragh’s voice, in 
slight surprise. 

“ H’m — m,” said Bunny again. ...” You see, you’ve 
rather an advantage over me there, Murragh.” 

“ What advantage ? Do you mean that you don't think so? ” 

“ Oh, no, not necessarily that. I mean that I’m at the 
disadvantage that I’ve known her all my life, you see.” 

“ Well, some men wouldn’t call that a disadvantage — but 
I see what you mean ; I suppose you can become so familiar 
with a wonderful thing that a stranger has to come to point 
out the wonder of it to you. Humph ! . . .” 

Neill repeated the “ Humph ! ” Then, as he turned the 
thing over in his mind, he saw fit to repeat it again, more 
slowly. It was now he who in his turn could not make it 
out at all. Bunny had known Miss Beckwith all his life ; 
Neill had only half meant his ironical remark about living 
with a wonderful thing until it is stale and a matter of course 
— Miss Beckwith could never become that ; and apparently, 
in spite of his “ not necessarilies ” and so forth. Bunny did 
not find Miss Beckwith magnificent. It was odd. There 
were only two inferences to be drawn — either that Bunny 
knew something that Neill did not know, or else that he did 
not know the thing Neill had assumed he knew. The first 
alternative Neill instantly set aside. There was hardly 


COTTERDALE 


9i 

room in a life so short as Miss Beckwith’s for more than one 
central heroism such as he had discovered in her that after- 
noon, more than one fact of such magnitude and beauty ; that 
one outstanding experience of nobility and devotion must 
be the greatest fact of her life ; and for the existence of that 
he had her own word. No : the second alternative must 
be the true one. . . . And yet, closely as he did not doubt she 
had kept her precious secret, it was odd that Bunny should 
be ignorant of it. Bunny was slow to speak, but by no means 
slow to notice ; and yet he had not noticed this ! . . . Well, 
since he did not know, it was not Murragh Neill’s business to 
tell him. If Miss Beckwith had wished him to know the 
story of her rejected love she would have told him herself. 
Decidedly she did not wish him to know, and this instantly 
became a double magnificence in her. Neill was silent in the 
.contemplation of her splendid concealment. . . . 

Bunny, for his part, behind the sheltering ear of his chair, 
was wondering more anxiously than ever what Neill was 
driving at. There was no doubt that Neill had taken some 
knowledge or other on his part very confidently for granted ; 
what was that knowledge ? It was not possible, by any stretch 
of the imagination, that that knowledge could be . . . well, 
that it could be the only thing it could be — Heavens, no ! 
Had that been so, Neill, far from finding Berice magnificent, 
would hardly have been speaking of her at all. There was 
something else, and Bunny’s brow was knotted in his per- 
plexity as to what it might be. At that moment Bunny had 
not the faintest intention of turning his chair for Neill’s 
convenience in talking to him. . . . 

At last he moved. He gave it up. 

“ Chess is easier, Murragh,” he grunted in despair. . . . 

Neill stretched himself, but did not take the hint. 

“ Well,” he said, with a short laugh at the perversity of 
the situation, “ there’s no reason why we shouldn’t talk 
about him, at any rate. If I’m to get a kind of composite 
photograph through other people I may as well have your 
contribution too. Tell me about him.” 

Bunny was instantly wary. He spied another bracketing 
here. 


THE EXCEPTION 


92 

“ Young Lionel ? ” he said slowly. “ I suppose you mean 
him. . . . What do you want to know ? ” 

Neill answered lazily, off-handedly. 

"Oh, anything you like. It doesn’t much matter where 
you begin. Begin anywhere. . . . What, for instance — 
barring one unaccountable stupidity he seems to have com- 
mitted — was his attitude to women ? ” 

Bunny passed his finger-tips over his eyeballs. A sharp 
involuntary “Eli?” had been checked only just in time on 
his lips. 

“ His attitude to women ? ” he repeated guardedly. 
“ What about it ? ” 

“ Yes. What about it ? ” 

Bunny deliberated. 

“ Well, if you want to know, he was ” 

But whatever the sentence was that Bunny had medi- 
tated, he never completed it. Suddenly he jumped out of his 
chair, agitated and unstrung. 

“ Look here, Murragh — the fellow’s dead,” he stammered. 

“ Ah !” said Neill, not moving, and again entirely absorbed 
in the contemplation of his pipe. “ I hope you don’t mean 
that you can’t find anything good to say of him and so you 
won’t say anything bad ? That’s what that phrase usually 
means. . . 

This was the kind of thing in Neill Bunny feared. An 
embarrassed red flushed his face. He made a little desperate 
gesture with his clenched fist. 

“ I wish to goodness you’d throw the job up to-morrow, 
Murragh ! ” he broke out. “ You’ll make nothing of it. 
Chuck it. Chuck the whole thing. If Mrs. Finch-Ommaney 
wants it, let her go to any ordinary mud-puncher for it — 
she won’t know the difference. Chuck it, Murragh.” 

It seemed to Bunny, and he was afraid to see it, that his 
friend’s fine mask had never resembled that of a bloodhound 
so much as in that moment. Slowly Neill shook his head. 

“ Can’t now, Bunny,” he said shortly. “ I’ve promised 
Miss Beckwith. Besides, I shall go ahead now if it’s only 
for my own fun. My credit’s lost over the job anyway, so 
I may as well get all the amusement I can. May I make a 


COTTERDALE 93 

guess ? It is that I’m inclined to think that you didn’t like 
the fellow very much.” 

Bunny’s agitation increased. 

“ I won’t say I’m glad he’s dead,” he began, and then, his 
tone suddenly changing to one of startling vehemence, he 
cried, “ but I do wish to God he’d never been born ! ” 

He had half raised a clenched fist. From the waist up, 
from his very feet that took hold on the rug, his attitude 
was the practised, dangerous, mechanically-assumed attitude 
of the skilled fighter who meditates a blow. And the blow, 
apparently, was for a man who lay under the earth many 
thousands of miles away. . . . These were the things Murragh 
Neill wanted to know. These were the things that presented 
Lionel Finch-Ommaney to him. . . . 

He gave one glance, and then deliberately turned his 
eyes away. 

“ Oh, drop it, Murragh ! ” Bunny groaned, suddenly re- 
laxing his attitude and falling into the chair again. 

Neill made no reply. 

His first thought was, “ So you were in love with her ; I 
thought so, but I wasn’t sure ” ; but his next was more intri- 
cate. Nay, it was exceedingly intricate, for how was Bunny’s 
momentary and surprising outburst to be reconciled with 
his ignorance of the fact that made Miss Beckwith so magnifi- 
cent — with his seeming though unspoken denial of the mag- 
nificence itself ? How could Bunny hate Lionel for his refusal 
of this superb woman if he did not know of that refusal ? 
It was baffling. Neill was all at sea. Something was wrong, 
somewhere. ... He would have given a good deal to be rid, 
for one quarter of an hour, of that in his blood which for- 
bade him to ask the point-blank question. 

" Well,” he remarked at last, “ I must say that the more 
I see of all this the less simple it becomes.” 

“ Of all what ? ” Bunny asked, again stung with quick 
fear. 

But the fear, as it happened, was groundless this time. 

“ Of the allowances and deductions and so forth I shall have 
to make for the kinks in my channels of information,” Neill 
replied. “ You’re a particularly kinked channel to-night.” 


THE EXCEPTION 


94 

Bunny, behind the lug of his chair again, almost groaned. 
Neill’s resemblance to a bloodhound was only fortuitous, 
but a terror had bit by bit fastened itself upon Bunny’s 
fancy. He imagined his friend unleashed — saw him nose to 
earth even now. Had he found ? Had he met with a check ? 
Was he picking up again as he contemplated the polish of his 
pipe bowl ? . . . Nobly mute Murragh would always run ; 
when all was over he would not once have given tongue ; but 
there came over Bunny a despairing sense of the futility of 
any course except the impossible one of giving Neill, in ten 
words, the true facts. 

And that was impossible because the secret was not his 
own. 

And yet in a sense it was his own, since he was not known 
even by the secret’s proper mistress to possess it. . . . 

It was merely stalemate between himself and Neill, each 
supposing himself to know, and each knowing, something 
that the other did not. 

“ Oh, Murragh, how I wish I’d never asked you up ! ” 
Bunny sighed presently. . . . “ Please, please will you drop 
it ? Do drop it, there’s a good chap ! ” 

Neill spoke quietly. “ Drop what ? The portrait ? ” 

“ The portrait. Questions. Miss Beckwith. That dead 
noodle. Everything.” 

“ Oh ? ” said Neill ^slowly. . . . “ Anybody would sup- 
pose ” 

“ Don't suppose ! ” Bunny broke in. “ Don’t do any- 
thing. It’s — it’s not for anybody but myself I ask it — it’s 
just for myself. Take it if you like that I’ve made a mess of 
things. I have — I have made a mess of things,” he continued 
recklessly, bent on diverting Murragh at all costs. “I’m 
not going to tell you how, because I simply don’t want you 
to know ” — (that, Bunny thought, ought to settle Neill) — - 
“ and if anything seems odd it’s me, me, you understand. 
You do understand that ? ” 

Neill did not quite understand ; and not to understand 
annoyed him. A purely intellectual curiosity in such matters 
was a need to be satisfied, and Bunny was not satisfying it. 
Again he tried to grasp Bunny’s importance as a factor of 


COTTERDALE 


95 

the problem. Bunny, of course, loved Berice ; Berice had 
loved the other — the young noodle ; was the real trouble, 
then, that. Bunny’s entreaties notwithstanding, she still 
refused him, intended to remain faithful to a mere memory, 
to the living man’s exclusion ? If so, that might or might 
not be magnificent ; it was not easy to say ; it might be an 
immature and mistaken idealism : very likely it was : all 
that could be said was that it was hard, confoundedly hard, 
on Bunny. . . . 

The next moment Bunny had chimed in with Neill’s 
thoughts. He had given a little choke, and from behind the 
chair-wing his voice had sounded. 

“ Oh, you aren’t a fool, Murragh ! You see I love her ! ” 
he almost sobbed. 

“ Oh, yes,” said Murragh absently. ... It was quite 
plain that Bunny loved this woman whom he did not appear 
to consider magnificent. 

“ Then can’t you — can’t you ” Bunny appealed 

brokenly. 

Bunny had turned in the capacious chair so that one shoulder 
showed. Neill did not like the way that shoulder heaved. 
He grumbled gently : 

“ Oh, hang it all, man, don’t ! ” he grumbled, himself in 
pain. “ I say : I’ll do anything you like, but stop this, 
please. Yes, anything you like. I’ll see Miss Beckwith and 
get my promise back, and then clear out. Will that satisfy 
you ? ” 

But again at this Bunny looked up quickly. Speak to 
Miss Beckwith ? That would hardly do either. Suppose 
she, too, should begin to make guesses and to credit Neill 
with the very knowledge Bunny was trying to keep from 
him ? She might do that— might suppose, now that Bunny 
had given her the safety-pin, that there had been talk. . . . 

But no : Bunny did not know that the gift of the pin had 
after all meant anything at all to her. . . . 

“ Must you do that ? ” poor Bunny asked faintly. “ Must 
you see her ? ” 

“ Oh, I think so. It’s the least I can do under the circum- 
stances,” said Neill. 


96 THE EXCEPTION 

“ Oh, Lord ! ” Bunny groaned. Any grasp of the situation 
he had ever had seemed now to have slipped away from him. 

But Neill had risen and was walking about the room. He 
was pondering his second hypothesis that day — that Bunny 
was, in fact, being sacrificed to the loved shade of one who 
had not loved in return. Could that possibly be made to 
explain Bunny’s unspoken denial of Miss Beckwith’s magnifi- 
cence ? At a pinch, Neill thought, it might. Such a resolve, 
if it was a girl’s dream, was perhaps belated in one who was 
after all no longer a girl : if anything else, it was Olympian 
in a workaday world . . . too Olympian . . . Neill shook 
his head. . . . 

“ I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said at last. “ I never really 
liked the job, and I’m rather inclined to wish now, with you, 
that I’d never come here. So I think the best thing I can 
do will be to see Miss Beckwith. I’ll tell her — Heaven forgive 
me for deceiving her even so little ! — that I find I can’t do it 
under the conditions. Then I’ll pack up and get off back to 
London. Will that do ? ” 

Still Bunny showed indecision. 

“ I wish it could have been done some other way. I don’t 
like the idea of her thinking that we’ve been — talking it over — 
her share in it — she’ll be pretty sure that we have — you see 
what I mean ? It isn’t that I want you to stop the portrait — 
I only want you to accept things as you find them ” 

Neill shook his head in weary impatience. 

“ Well, if it’s not to be that, what is it to be ? I must 
either do it or not do it, and it’s only right to Mrs. Finch- 
Ommaney that I should make up my mind without losing 
any more time. She’ll have to get somebody else, you know. 
Look here, Bunny,” he broke out suddenly, “ we’ve been 
rather beating about the bush, and it’s just possible after all 
that I’ve been talking of cheese and you of chalk. Decency’s 
all very well ; I hope we’re both decent enough not to have 
to worry too much about that ; so let’s talk plainly for one 
half-minute, and then, if you like, forget all about it. At first, 
when we began this talk, I thought you didn’t know some- 
thing ; now I see you didn’t know / knew it. Well, I do. 
Let’s put it in a nutshell and have done with it. He didn’t 


COTTERDALE 97 

love her , but she loved him ; you love her ; and she still loves 
him. Whether she’ll go on doing so of course we don't know, 
but as it stands at present she loves him or his memory 
enough to give the rest of her life up to it. If you think that 
that isn’t quite so fine as it sounds at first, I don’t know that 
I don’t agree with you ; it’s too lofty for human nature’s 
daily food, perhaps. — There, we’ve got it out at last ! At 
least, this is my interpretation of it all, and it’s why I said 
she was magnificent.” 

Bunny could scarcely restrain a gasp. So that was it ! 
That was the way Neill had pieced things together ! Beauti- 
ful, beautiful ! So brave an edifice, on such a foundation ! 
Beautiful ! . . . And then all at once a vast curiosity to 
know more took him. But at the same time he must be 
careful not to as much as touch that edifice for fear it should 
come down. It was only to be looked at. . . . Mingled with 
his curiosity, too, was an immense relief. So long as Neill 
thought that, Berice’s secret still lay between them. 

“ She’s told you all that ? . . .” he asked in a low and 
admiring voice. 

“ Not in so many words, of course,” 

“ No, of course not. But . . . ? ” 

“In her own way. It wasn’t exactly an easy thing to 
tell,” said Neill, with a slight shrug. 

Bunny waited for a full minute. That was all right then ! 
... It was by no silence that, at the end of the minute, 
Bunny lied. 

“ You’re very clever,” he said, with his eyes on the ground. 
. . . “ And, of course, you’re — you’re perfectly right.” 

He seemed to look on his lie almost with satisfaction. Yes, 
it would do. . . . 

And now that Neill thought this, and the danger to Berice 
was past, there was no special reason why the memorial 
should not go forward. Neill would spare his magnificent 
woman now. . . . Bunny rose almost gaily. 

“ Well, since you know all about it, Murragh, that alters 
matters entirely. There’s only one other thing we need 
mention : need you worry her any more about it all ? Won’t 
/ do ? I’ll try to sink my prejudices — as you say, I didn’t 

7 


THE EXCEPTION 


98 

like him — and that’ll leave Berice practically out of it. — And 
after all,” he added, a little incautiously, “ the thing’s going 
up in a church, not in a Court of Justice ” 

“ Justice ? ... Do you mean the spirit it’s to be done 
in? ” 

Bunny took himself up hastily. “ See how I keep my 
word about my prejudices ! ” he laughed. “ Of course — the 
spirit it’s to be done in — that’s what I mean — if I meant 
anything. I’m so tired ” 

Neill made a grimace, but he was no less relieved than 
Bunny. 

“ So I go on with it ? . . . And what about my Art ? ” 

Bunny laughed again. “ Your Art’s safe enough. I wish 
I was as sure of beating Jim Bright in the Fell race as I am 
that your Art can take care of itself.” 

He said it lightly ; but in his heart, as one breathless sur- 
mise as to what had actually passed between Neill and Berice 
succeeded another, there was the growing belief that Berice 
had indeed been magnificent, in a sense his friend little 
dreamed of. 


XI 


E VERARD BECKWITH’S plans, which the fascination 
of the new ponds had interrupted, had been to proceed 
to London and there to put up at the small Bloomsbury 
hotel he used on his infrequent visits to town ; and among 
his postponed delights were afternoons to be spent among 
the specifications for jackets to be found in the library of the 
Patent Office, Holborn, W.C. Berice, meanwhile, was to 
have gone to the Tracys, or to their neighbours the Howitts. 
There were other houses, too, where, under ordinary circum- 
stances, she might have “ sung for her supper.” But the very 
fact that the Beckwiths were known to be leaving Skire- 
thorns gave it to be supposed that they themselves would 
prefer to be at least temporarily established before paying 
visits elsewhere. 

And Berice herself was strongly of the same opinion. Even 
could she have endured very much more of Undershaws her 
standing at Mrs. Finch-Ommaney’s was an anomalous one. 
She was neither at home nor, strictly speaking, visiting. 
And at the Howitts’ it would be little better. She wanted 
now to be settled with as little loss of time as possible, and 
she sought an opportunity of speaking to Everard about it. 

She found it one afternoon in the field they were making 
ready for the annual Feast. The field lay at the foot of the 
precipitous spur of Fell that divided Ridd and Cotter, and 
Berice had driven to Cotterdale village more for the sake of 
the air than for the urgency of the errand that had taken 
her to the village chemist’s. From the bridge she had seen 
her uncle crossing a rough pasture that adjoined the fair 
field ; and, taking the short way of a field-path, she had 
hurried after him. 


99 


100 


THE EXCEPTION 


She overtook him at the gate of the field. He was looking 
up at the cloudless sky and the steep Fell, mentally marking 
weather portents. He turned. 

“You here, Berice ? ... It’s going to be bad footing for 
the Fell race ; those bents will be as slippery as glass this 
hot weather. . . . How’s Mrs. Finch-Ommaney ? ” 

“ Pretty well. . . . Come somewhere where I can talk to 
j^ou, Ev.” 

She led the way past a large tent that half a dozen men 
were laboriously hoisting about its central pole, and leaned 
against a low wall. Everard’s eyes were interestedly on the 
men at the tent-ropes as he said, “ Well, what is it, Berice ? ” 

“ I want to know when we’re going away,” Berice said 
abruptly. 

“ Oh ! ... Of course ; yes. . . . Well, I’m ready, in a 
sense, any time. It’s chiefly a question of Emney’s con- 
venience. Is the time hanging heavy ? ” 

“ Yes, it is,” said Berice shortly. 

“ Ah ! Well, we must see what’s to be done.” His eyes 
wandered to the ribbon of road that wound round the hill 
to Ridsdale, and he smiled. “ Well, we must see what’s 
to be done ; but — there’s one thing I don’t think you’re 
very well cut out for, Berice.” 

“ What’s that ? ” 

“ Nursing.” 

There was hearty assent in Berice’s reply. “ No. I agree 
with you. I don’t think I am.” 

“ Ah ! . . . Well, well. I see. I se$. ... Is she — 
very ?” Everard asked delicately. 

“ She is. Very,” Berice informed him with urgency. 

Everard gave a gentle sigh. “ Poor woman ! ” 

Berice fumed. She did not just then share her uncle’s 
gentleness. 

“ Poor woman ! ” said Everard again. . . . “ But be a 
little patient, Berice. I dare say she’s a little trying, but it’s 
been a great blow to her. . . . She’s a Palinfield,” he con- 
tinued wanderingly, “and the Palinfields are all a bit like 
that. I remember old Palinfield ; and poor Lionel had a 
touch of it too. . . . Try to stand it, dear.” 


COTTERDALE ioi 

Berice turned impatiently. 

“ Do you suppose I haven’t tried, Ev ? . . . And I’d go 
on trying if I thought I was doing one atom of good, but I’m 
not. I really doubt whether she wants me ; it’s certainly 
not pleasant.” 

“ H’m ! ” said Everard thoughtfully. “That’s a pity. . . . 
Well, if it’s as bad as all that you’d better leave.” 

“ And go where ? ” Berice asked. 

“ Just look at the way those chaps are handling that pole ! 
. . . Well, you seem a bit run down. Perhaps a complete 
change would do you good. Do you think Emily Tracy 
would be glad to see you ? ” 

“ They’ve gone to Norway.” 

“ Have they ? I must look up the weather-charts and 
see what sort of weather they’re having. . . . Then what 
about the Howitts, or the Dickensons ? ” 

“ I don’t think I want to go to friends. I want to know 
what we're going to do, you and I.” 

“ Well, why not come back to Skirethorns till I’m ready ? 
I don't suppose that will be more than a fortnight. In a 
sense you’re still there ; you didn’t go to Mrs. Finch-Om- 
maney’s for any specified time.” 

“ Oh ! . . . You think I’m still there ? ” Berice asked, 
apparently privately relishing something that after all she 
did not seem to find very relishable. 

“ In a sense, I suppose you might consider yourself so.” 

She knew she had it in her power to force Everard’s hand ; 
she had merely to say that Emney had asked her to marry 
him and he would see the impossibility of a return to Skire- 
thorns. But since she had no intention of accepting Emney 
she was bound to keep his secret. She tapped her foot 
petulantly. 

“ Tell me how long these ponds are likely to take you, at 
the very outside,” she demanded. 

“ As I say, perhaps a fortnight. You see, he put it quite 
plainly to me at the beginning, and I agreed. It would be 
difficult to withdraw now.” 

“ And then we go to London ? ” 

“Yes, if that’s where you’d like to go.” 


102 


THE EXCEPTION 


Berice drew a long breath, as if she hoped to draw in with 
it renewed powers of patience and endurance. 

“ All right,” she said. “ A fortnight. But make it less if 
you can.” 

“ Very well. I’m sorry you’ve found it too much for you, 
my dear. . . . They’re bungling dreadfully with that tent ; 
if they got on the other side they’d have the wind to help 
them. ...” 

For a while longer they watched the men who struggled 
with the flapping canvas, and by the time Berice left Everard 
had taken charge of the operations and had hardly a care in 
the world. 

Berice had intended to drive back to Undershaws; Mrs. 
Finch-Ommaney’s little victoria was waiting for her at the 
“ Racehorses ” ; but as she was crossing the pasture to the 
bridge again she saw Bunny Hartopp with his hands in his 
pockets, slouching towards the fair field. A little to her 
right there was a gap in the wall ; she hesitated, and then 
turned towards it, in order that Bunny might avoid her if 
he wished. That seemed to be his habit nowadays, and, 
though she had not mentioned it to Neill, she was pretty sure 
that, as she had approached the painting cottage a. day or 
two before, she had seen Bunny slip behind one of the horse- 
shoe butts of peat on the moor. 

But this time Bunny, instead of avoiding her, strode to- 
wards her, lifted his cap, and, after a rather strained greeting, 
asked her if she was tired. 

“ No. Why ? ” she inquired. 

“ I was thinking that if you were walking back to Under- 
shaws I might walk with you.” 

“ Jack’s waiting for me at the ‘ Racehorses.’ ” 

“ Oh, all right if you’d rather not.” 

Berice hesitated for a moment, and then made a decision. 
“ Oh, very well. We’ll walk if you’ll send up to the ‘ Race- 
horses ’ and let Jacky know we’ve gone on.” 

“ Pht ! Tom ! ” called Bunny. 

There were half a dozen lads hanging about. One of them 
started forward. Bunny sent him off with the message, and 
then he and Berice took the road in silence. 


COTTERDALE 


103 

Perhaps Berice had accepted Bunny’s company less be- 
cause she wanted it than to let him see she was not afraid of 
it. And she thought she knew why he had asked to be 
allowed to come with her. She was jumpy again ; everything 
in her life seemed to conspire to push her to an extremity : 
and she gave contrarieties expectation and welcome. Al- 
ready she had forgotten that sharply-seen peril that had 
been so plain to her after her reckless passage with Neill — 
that if she was to be betrayed, it would be she who would 
betray herself. And here was Bunny, if not with a safety-pin, 
probably with some other goading device. Ah, yes, she 
thought bitterly and with defiance, she knew what Bunny 
wanted to walk with her for. He wanted to talk about Lionel. 
Everybody nowadays seemed to want to talk about Lionel. 
They reserved their talk about Lionel expressly for her, and 
when they could not think of anything further to say about 
Lionel they sent to London for their friends, in order that 
they, too, might talk about him. One would have said that 
Lionel had had to die before he could truly come to life, the 
air so bristled with Lionel ; no wonder that Bunny wanted 
not to be out of the fashion. . . . 

She grew momentarily more reckless in thought as she 
strode along in silence by Bunny’s side. She had begun to 
hate the very name of Lionel. She did not want to talk about 
Lionel ; she was almost conspicuous in that, since everybody 
else seemed to want to do so ; and in a sense, not to talk 
about him was almost to proclaim his name aloud — she was 
jumpy enough to think that, believing, and, of course, not 
believing it. ... It was a moment full of peril for her. 
She played with the peril. She asked herself whether she 
alone was to be out of it — whether she alone, quickly becom- 
ing so desperate that the choice seemed to lie between blab- 
bing by silences and making the betrayal by words, might 
not at any rate have the fun and excitement of the bravado. 
Something impish stirred within her. If Bunny wanted it 
he could have it. She would at least surprise somebody : 
and that her private satisfaction at the perilous predicament 
in which she deliberately placed herself should be the greater, 
she sought a casual and off-handed tone. 


THE EXCEPTION 


104 

“ We shall miss poor Lionel this Feast,” she remarked 
calmly. . . . 

It was delicious. She positively tingled with the hardi- 
hood of it. It was an exquisite mocking of herself, and the 
joy of the sensation was deficient only in her ignorance of 
whether Bunny also knew he was mocked. If his gift of the 
safety-pin had meant what it might quite well have meant, 
he was mocked very prettily ; if, on the other hand, the pin 
had been innocently given, he was perhaps none the less 
mocked that he didn’t know it. Which had he meant by 
giving her the pin ? It was necessary to the fullness of her 
present enjoyment that she should know. Dared she venture 
a look at him ? . . . She did. A little to her dashing, it told 
her nothing. 

And Bunny had heard a little, and guessed the rest, of 
the state of affairs at Undershaws ; and quite special infor- 
mation he possessed assured him only too well that what 
others might set down as a discomfort and an irritation she 
must feel as a hideous torture. His heart was very full, but 
he contrived to make his question laconic enough : 

“ Mrs. Finch-Ommaney ? ” he asked significantly. . . . 

Berice gave a hard laugh. 

“ Oh, as much as you like ! . . . And when I want to 
vary it a little I can come to your friend, Mr. Neill — or to 
you.” 

Bunny looked quickly at her ; she was too ready with her 
accusation. “ I haven’t mentioned his name,” he grunted. 

She laughed. 

“ No, you haven’t. . . . Why haven’t you, by the way ? ” 

He made no reply. Bunny was wondering about Berice’s 
magnificence. For he, too, remembered the pin, and ached 
to know whether in accepting it, she had accepted also the 
intimation, the acknowledgment, the warning that had gone 
with it. Did she know how much he knew ? Had the gift 
of the pin indeed been sufficiently significant, and, if it had 
not, or even if she chose to consider that it had not, was she 
merely playing on his uncertainty ? Was she pitting her 
own slight cleverness against his doggedness, and trying, 
while admitting no knowledge herself, to force admissions 


COTTERDALE 


105 

from him ? Or was the mask he suspected her to be wearing 
in truth no mask at all, and had the pin been so empty of 
meaning to her, so unrelated to other facts in her memory, 
that her heart would momentarily have stopped beating at 
the bare suspicion that he knew anything at all ? . . . There 
was colour for this last surmise ; Bunny could not see how 
otherwise she could have dared to attempt to delude him. . . . 

Bunny passed his hand over his brow ; he was wretched, 
wretched. Suppose that she really knew in her heart that 
he knew ; why, oh, why, in that case, should she take the 
trouble to pretend to him ? What satisfaction could that 
afford her ? No, the hypothesis that she knew he knew 
would hardly bear examination. The message of the pin 
had failed after all. It was far more likely that she was 
merely trying to deceive him on the original fact, as in some 
form or another she had deceived Neill, as Bunny himself 
had not hesitated, for her sake, to deceive Neill. . . . (But 
Neill had had to be deceived though the rocks of Judgment 
Day had fallen on Bunny’s head.) . . . Oh, how gladly, would 
she but speak the four words that would clear away this 
horrible mist of machination, would Bunny have sunk every- 
thing, snatched her away out of it all, and asked her to 
marry him within a month ! 

And all that stood in the way was her refusal to tell him 
something he already knew, with the suspicion always over 
her head that she would have told him only after she knew 
he knew ! No offer of marriage was possible on those terms. 
The best thing he could do would be to put it out of his head 
at once. . . . Bunny groaned, and immediately cleared his 
throat noisily to cover the groan. 

Presently he made another half-hearted attempt to pluck 
her secret from her. 

“ How did you get on with Neill ? ” he asked. 

Berice answered lightly. “ Oh, we talked— and drank 
tea ” 

“ You seem to have made him admire you.” 

“ Really ? ” 

“Yes. I think you struck him as being very fine.” 

“ That’s very gratifying,” Berice remarked carelessly. 


io 6 


THE EXCEPTION 


“ You — you gave him that impression,” Bunny said again, 
his heart thumping within him. 

“ Well ? ... You speak as if you were making an accusa- 
tion.” 

“ x — i ” Bunny began, and then again gave it up. 

“ Well, I hope he didn’t worry you,” he ran down. But his 
whole nature yearned that she should be worried, tortured, 
brought to extremity, if by those means she might but 
escape free and be rid for ever of the horror that, he knew, 
would cease only when she ceased to hold her neck so stiffly 
and no longer out-fronted her error with a brow of brass. 

But she took him up maliciously. 

“ Worry me? ” she queried with affected surprise. “ Oh, 
dear, no ! Whatever should he worry me about ? ” 

“ Well,” Bunny faltered, “ I mean — I mean if he did — if 
he had happened to worry you — it would have been my 
fault. I — I got him up here, and introduced him to you. 
What I mean is, that you’d have had to quarrel with me, 
you see, not with him ” 

Berice gave him a stare. Behind its open blankness was 
busy calculation enough. 

“ How extraordinary you are ! ” she said coolly. “Now 
I remember it, that’s twice you’ve mentioned quarrelling — 
now, and that morning on the terrace. They say speaking of 
love is making love ; it seems to me that to talk so much 
about quarrelling is rather like quarrelling.” 

Bunny could hardly endure it. Suddenly he broke out 
passionately. 

“Well, that would be better than this ! ” he cried. 

“ Better than what ? . . .” 

They had stopped in their walk. They stood looking at 
one another face to face across the unspoken thing again. 
Both knew, she was almost certain he knew, but he did not 
know that she knew he knew. . . . 

There was no issue. For a moment they stood face to 
face, and then walked on again. 

Suddenly, out of his love and misery and uncompromising 
beliefs, Bunny felt a slow resentment against her growing 
up within him. He, Bunny, would have been ashamed to be 


COTTERDALE io; 

believed in a falsity merely out of the trust and credulity 
of other people’s hearts. He would have felt himself humbled 
had a friend had to lie for him. And the mere uselessness of 
it all appalled him. As if her kind could ever effectually 
conceal anything ! She could keep neither her gladness at 
joyous things nor her wincing at sharp ones to herself. It 
was only a question of time and chance — he, too, saw it — 
before her fancied cleverness and headstrongness overshot 
themselves and took her life entirely out of her own hands. 
Fool that she was ! Why, what did she suppose Life to be 
— a skittle game, with moves taken back, such as he played 
over the chess board with Neill— or a deadly, irrevocable 
game for keeps ? Had she, he wondered, thought for a 
moment of these things, or was she rushing blindly on in the 
fancied possession of a power she hadn’t got ? What a fool 
she was ! Even in loving her he hated her. . . . 

The hedges were full of roses, with straggling flushes of 
honeysuckle against the sky. She was carelessly touching 
twigs and blossoms with her hand as she passed. She seemed 
to him just then a very picture of recklessness, buoyancy, 
vanity, self-confidence, folly, wilfulness, and instability. 
It goaded him. He did not know how alive she herself was 
to certain precarious aspects of her position ; he saw only 
her madness and irresponsibility. He broke out wrathfully. 

“ I’ll tell you one thing, Berice ! ” he cried. “ You’re not 
so clever as you think. There are far cleverer people than you 
in the world ; and if I were you I’d keep clear of — well, 
clever men like Neill, for instance ! ” 

Airily, laughingly, she chose not to understand. She 
apparently even played the comedy of appearing to hesitate 
on the verge of being shocked. 

“ Oh, Bunny ! . . . Your friend ! . . .” 

Bunny flushed darkly at the mocking imputation. He 
scowled at her. 

“You know very well I don’t mean that ! You know as 
well as I do how Murragh Neill is to be trusted — to the last 
inch ! But I’m giving you good advice for all that ” 

With a light wave of her hand she called his attention to 
the surrounding hills. 


io8 


THE EXCEPTION 


“ Oh, Bunny, the echoes — the Ridsdale echoes — you’re 
waking the echoes ! . . . But tell me why I should keep 
away from — I was going to say from Mr. Neill, but I suppose 
you didn’t exactly say that — from men as clever as Mr. 
Neill, then ? ” 

“For your own sake ! ” cried Bunny wrathfully. 

“ For my own sake ? ” 

“ Yes — unless you think that doesn’t matter ! ” 

“ How violent you are ! ” 

Her disconcerting comment, not on the matter, but on 
the manner of Bunny’s speech, drove him by excess of indig- 
nation to silence again. Again her hand toyed with the 
flowers as she passed. She was wondering which of the 
several rods she had in pickle for this surly and meddlesome 
companion she could with most profit to herself apply to 
his back at this moment. 

Suddenly she found one that would serve admirably. She 
turned to Bunny again with a deliberately winsome smile. 

“ This is all very incomprehensible, Bunny,” she re- 
marked, “ and I’m not going to try to understand it. But 
tell me one thing. A moment ago you spoke of quarrelling ; 
well, answer me a question. Do you or do you not think, if 
a friendship’s to be kept, that it’s necessary to be always 
digging about roots (let me put it that way) and bringing to 
light whatever you may happen to find there ? Is that 
necessary ? Or don’t you think on the whole that it’s simpler 
and easier, and perhaps fairer too, to take your friends as 
they are ? ” 

At this point the unsuspecting Bunny opened his mouth, 
closed it, opened it again, but found not a word to say. 
Berice continued : 

“ And if all this isn't necessary, doesn’t friendship become 
a sort of compromise — a ‘ hollow compromise,’ I’ve no doubt 
you’ll call it, but at any rate a decent one ? Haven’t most 
folk got — roots and crawling things, let us say — of their 
own, without bothering too much about those of their neigh- 
bours ? ” 

The stricken Bunny could only groan. “God knows I have! ” 

At that she turned on him like a flash. 


COTTERDALE 


109 

“ Oh ! . , . You do know what I mean, then ! You do 
make an admission ! There is some private trowelling of 
my own you’re so good as to offer to give me a hand with ! 
Perhaps, now that you’ve admitted so much, you’ll say a 
little more ? Or is it too bad to speak of ? . . 

Bunny stood, abashed and interdicted. He had not her 
nimbleness, and all was now merely a worse muddle to him 
than ever. Surmises crowded one on another in his brain 
more quickly than his intelligence could grasp and examine 
them. He saw that he had made a tacit admission, on which 
she had swiftly seized ; had she also, by that swift seizing, 
admitted anything ? Had she deliberately laid that pitfall 
for him, and if so, from what secret fear ? “ Perhaps you’ll 
say a little more ... or is it too bad to speak of ? ” Was 
that a quintessential impudence, or had she still not the 
faintest idea that Lionel Finch-Ommaney had not been 
the very pattern of discretion and watchfulness and secrecy ? 
... No : the gift of the pin must have failed of its purpose. 
Had it not been so there would have been no point in this 
useless effrontery. She must, must be back at the original 
fact, concealing that from him, who knew all about it ! . . . 
But why, in that case, her own tacit admission, that there 
was anything to “ trowel ” about ? . . . Bunny took his 
head between his hands. He could only think of one thing 
she might have meant by her reminder that we all have 
“ roots and crawling things ” of our own — the generality, 
always more humiliating to the recipient than to the speaker, 
that without charity and forbearance life is hardly livable 
at all. It came a little oddly — it is not the one who stands 
most in need of the charity who commonly urges it — but 
it was the nearest Bunny could get. ... He concluded 
that she did not know he knew. 

But he saw also that it had come to an open breach between 
Berice and himself. She stood, haughty and beautiful against 
the honeysuckle and roses, looking down on him. 

“ Have you anything else to say ? ” she asked icily. 

“ No,” he mumbled, three parts convinced that he himself 
was entirely in the wrong and she in the right to tell him to 
mind his own business. 


IIO 


THE EXCEPTION 


“ No ? . . . Then since our walk hasn’t been entirety a 
success I’ll finish it alone, if you don’t mind. ...” 

Was it Bunny’s fault ? He vowed it was not. He had 
done his best, but it was still stalemate — always stalemate. 

But it was not stalemate to Berice. She knew now what 
she had only suspected before — that Bunny knew ; and it 
was part of the swiftly advancing wildness and elasticity of 
her spirit that on no account whatever would she now let 
Bunny know that she knew he knew. 


XII 


F OR she considered that she had already paid whatever 
might justly be demanded of her, and paid in full. 
She herself had condemned herself, passed sentence, mag- 
nanimously making it heavy rather than light, and had 
worked out her self-imposed purgation ; ergo, she argued, 
the matter was effaced. To judgment that became a per- 
secution she did not intend to submit. Anything proportion- 
able was only right ; but beyond that . . . well, there is 
not one of us but consents to be arraigned only on the condi- 
tion that, while offender, he has also power of revision over 
the sentence. 

And, since it is the law that every action has its correspond- 
ing reaction, equal in intensity and opposite in direction, her 
wilfulness became comparable only to her former submission. 
Rapidly she began to write off outstanding obligations. At 
the mere thought that in another fortnight she would have 
done with Undershaws her bosom rose more lightly. 
Mrs. Finch-Ommaney might continue to feed on the yester- 
day’s manna of her grief • Berice was now past her dismal 
apogee, stood away on the outward journey again, and had 
an interest in other things. 

And she felt that she had neglected these other things for 
too long. Love, after all, is not the only thing in Life. True, 
she had not had love — she knew that — but many brave 
women miss it and do not spend the rest of their lives in 
repining for it. Berice was conscious of bravery. Gaiety, 
friendship, books, knowledge, travel — these were things to be 
bravely sought. She had lost much time, but there was one 
thing she had not lost — the belief that if only she desired 
things ardently enough she would get them by the mere 


hi 


1 1 2 


THE EXCEPTION 


force of her desire. She had not been in love ; she had only 
been in love with Love ; and, that past, she had now fallen 
in love with Life. 

The Feast that year fell opportunely with her altered 
mood. The fair field was a bustle, and the throb and jollity 
in the air could be felt rather than heard a couple of miles 
up the Dale. There was a brass band competition, in which 
eight or nine bands were engaged, and over and over again 
the “ arrangement ” of William Tell was played to the 
judge who sat sequestered and jealously guarded in his 
little tent. The way in which this band or the other had 
“ takken ” a particular passage was the subject of nightly 
debate in the “ Cotterdale Arms ” ; and the ever-repeated 
piece seemed to Berice to call without ceasing, “ Life, Life, 
Life ! ” On a level stretch down by the river they raced 
horses and ponies ; there was a great roundabout with a 
steam organ ; the rising and falling of rows of swing-boats 
interposed ceaselessly between the eye and the skyline of 
the grey Fell ; and the cracks from a miniature rifle range 
sounded without intermission. 

On the first afternoon of the Feast Everard Beckwith and 
Emney had come down from Skirethorns to see the sports, 
and they stood laughing and talking with Neill, Bunny, and 
Sir John Hartopp. Bunny’s careful avoidance of Berice was 
superfluous ; she scarcely gave him a glance ; and he refused 
to be dragged from the outskirts of the group that was 
gathered about the space that had been cleared for the 
throwing of the cricket ball. 

Berice remembered afterwards her slight surprise that 
Emney should have taken a hand in this event. She did not 
know why she should have been surprised ; all she knew at 
the time was that he was not the kind of man she would 
have associated with any form of athleticism. But take a 
hand he did. The Cotterdale lads are good throwers, by 
reason of their constant practice at a crag on the Arndale 
road, which seems easy to hit with a stone, but is actually 
ninety yards or so from the road \ and it was after these 
had made their attempts that Emney turned to Everard 
Beckwith. 


COTTERDALE 113 

“ Are you any good at this ? ” he asked. 

“ Not now,” said Everard, smiling. “ Some years ago, 
perhaps. . . 

Jim Bright had the ball, which had just been returned 
from the other end. “ Will ye have a try, Mr. Emney ? ” 
he said. 

“You ought to give me a handicap for my age — but yes, 
I’ll have a shot,” Emney said. 

He took off his coat, turned back his cuffs from his bony 
wrists, and advanced to the mark. Half the field had come 
running up, and a whispered jocularity or two had gone 
round. Then Emney threw. The spot that the ball next 
touched after leaving his hand was the ground a hundred 
yards and more away. 

“ Bray vos ! ” and cries of “ Good throw ! ” went up. The 
ball was returned, and Emney, taking it again, prepared to 
throw it into the air. 

“ Five shillings for whoever catches this ! ” he cried. . . . 

The ball flew up until it became very tiny against the 
blue. Jim Bright stood under it, looking up. . . . 

“ Oh, well caught, Jim ! ” Emney cried, as the ball de- 
scended like a bullet into Jim’s hands. “ Jolly well caught ! ” 

He bore his honours lightly. He was putting on his coat 
again. Berice, who had seen him throw, did not know that 
a man not otherwise conspicuous for strength and skill 
sometimes has the knack of the ball ; but, for some reason 
she could not have defined, she was glad that Emney had 
done well. For one thing, he had outdistanced Bunny 
Hartopp’s throw by yards ; for another, he had shown the 
people of this Cotterdale from which she ardently longed to 
break away that even in so small a matter as throwing a 
ball they are not the only folk in the world ; and it did 
not occur to her that before entering the contest Emney 
might just possibly have counted the chances of his being 
able to excel in it. She was so pleased at his success that, 
finding herself at his elbow, she complimented him ; they 
had always looked on Jim Bright as their best thrower, 
she said. ... He accepted the compliment with a quite 
simple laugh of pleasure ; she moved away with Sir John 
8 


THE EXCEPTION 


1 14 

Hartopp to watch the jumping ; and Emney made no at- 
tempt to attach himself to them. . . . 

When next they met, half an hour later, near a brazen 
eruption of William Tell , it was she who sought his company. 
To tell the truth, she had lately had more than one mis- 
giving whether, the urgency notwithstanding, she must not 
have seemed rather gratuitously abrupt on a certain recent 
occasion which he no doubt remembered very well ; and 
though that subject could not be raised again, there were 
other ways in which her harshness might be a little amelio- 
rated. Soon after their visit to the mill he had lent her the 
two books of which he had spoken that morning ; she had 
not yet found time to look at them ; but it would at least 
be graceful to mention them. She did so. 

“ The Aubade and the Gestes Pares senses ?” he said. 
“ Please keep them as long as you like. I can quite under- 
stand from what your uncle has told me that you’ve not 
had much time for reading. I don’t know Mrs. Finch-Om- 
maney, but that’s no reason for not hoping she’s better ? ” 

She forgot that there was an implication in the fact that 
she should notice what, after all, it would have been distaste- 
ful to call an improvement in him ; or perhaps she forgot 
that the changes we attribute to other people are frequently 
changes that have taken place in ourselves. She certainly 
liked him far better than she had supposed she ever would, 
and, so long as it was plainly understood that no recurrence 
to one subject was to be permitted, there were other grounds 
on which she would meet him gladly. She gave him a smile 
and a nod. 

“I’ll tell her you asked,” she said. 

“ She won’t mind that ? . . .” 

He really meant the question. Somehow it seemed an 
admission, and one not altogether without natural dignity, 
that he, too, was not unconscious of the things she had noticed 
in him on that morning when he had sat by her side on the 
boulder near the mountain stream. It was exceedingly 
delicate and difficult, and the mere naming of the thing that 
was in her mind was destructive of that thing. He seemed to 
trust her to take his full meaning, and in such a way that, 


COTTERDALE 


US 

without doing an impossible thing, she could not but honour 
his trust. It was, at any rate, far pleasanter to do so ; and 
it occurred to her, a little late perhaps, that, whatever it 
was in him she had at first a little wondered at, he probably 
was, in spite of all, immeasurably her superior in know- 
ledge of that Life which now so irresistibly called her. And 
there is more than one kind of man in the world, after all. 

“ I’m sure she won’t,” she replied. . . . “ But it is rather 
difficult to talk with a bombardon at your ear ” 

He felt it to be an invitation ; she had moved ; and they 
walked away together, pleasantly chatting. Tea-time drew 
near ; their party came together again near the donkey 
races ; and a proposal was made that they should return to 
Skirethorns for tea. Berice could have made her attendance 
on Mrs. Finch-Ommaney an excuse for not accepting ; she 
hesitated for a moment ; and then suddenly she accepted. 
The car was waiting, and they got into it. Bunny only 
remained behind. It did not by any means displease Berice 
that Bunny should sulk. If he cared to take his enjoyment 
in that way, very well : when he had learned to respect 
people’s privacies, and to recognize that a just self-punish- 
ment does not invoke the bearing of the old burden for ever, 
then perhaps she would have something to say to him. . . . 

They reached Skirethorns, and took tea on the terrace. 
It was a heavenly evening, warm and cloudless, and from 
the fair field a mile and a half away the strains of William 
Tell floated lightly up the Dale. They lingered over the 
fragments of their repast, the men contentedly drawing at 
their pipes and cigars ; and Everard Beckwith referred 
again to that throw of Emney’s. 

“If you catch as well as you throw you must have been 
an uncommonly good out-field,” he remarked. “ You’ve 
evidently played cricket.” 

“ That was my place, of course,” Emney replied ; and for 
a quarter of an hour they talked cricket, Emney showing 
an unexpected knowledge of the state of the county champion- 
ship. . . . “ But I could never afford very much time for it,” 
their host concluded. “I’ve had to work far too hard. I’ve 
been in business since I was sixteen, and if you know any- 


1 16 


THE EXCEPTION 


thing about modern business you’ll understand that I’ve 
had to take my cricket as I could get it.” 

“You have to specialize, of course,” said Everard sagely ; 
“ no doubt about that ; even my own little homespun 
attempt told me that. . . .” 

The claims on a man’s time of sport, business, and jackets 
occupied them for another quarter of an hour, and then 
Emney said : 

“ What are you doing about dinner, Hartopp ? Can you 
stay ? I don’t know what I can offer you, I’m sure ; every- 
body’s down at the field there ; but there’ll be cold stuff, if 
you can put up with that ” 

“ No better over at my place. . . . Thanks,” Sir John 
replied. “ Will that suit you, Neill ? ” ' 

“ Admirably,” said Neill. 

“ Right,” said Emney, and then he turned to Berice. He 
smiled. “ We could run you over in the car in twenty minutes 
any time,” he reminded her. 

She hesitated again, wondering about Mrs. Finch-Ommaney. 

“ Better fiddle the tune out,” Sir John twinkled from 
behind his cigar. 

“ Very well. Thank you,” said Berice. “ But please 
don’t keep me too late. . . .” 

The pleasant, idle talk was resumed. 

Berice enjoyed the evening thoroughly, and without a 
second thought as to why she did so. She needed some such 
interlude. She so contrived matters that it was not noticeable 
that she said little to Neill, whom for vague enough reasons she 
set with Bunny in the shades of uncordial thought : and 
the strolling off together of Everard and Sir John Hartopp, 
presently followed by Neill, left her and Harrison Emney 
alone. Any lurking fear she might have had that he would 
put a strain upon the opportunity was at once dispelled by 
the cheerfulness of his proposal that they should go and see 
the “ old crockery ” of which he had spoken during the 
earlier days of his installation. They went indoors to see it. 

It stood in the drawing-room ; it was choice Sevres ; and 
he made no pretence that he did not know its worth. ‘ ‘ They’re 
all good pieces,” he said, “ and this, in the next cabinet, is by 


COTTERDALE 117 

Riesener, Louis the Sixteenth’s Sbeniste, an admirable speci- 
men, to my way of thinking. . . He opened cases, drew 
aside silk curtains, and put pieces into her hands ; and he 
promised to show her after dinner his collection of Keigwyn’s 
pastels. The others returned from their stroll, and Neill, 
rashly questioning Emney’s assignation of some ivory or 
other, was overwhelmed with evidence and had laughingly 
to confess himself worsted. They dined, sitting long over 
the scratch meal, laughing and talking ; they sat so long 
that the candles had to be brought in before they had finished j 
and then they adjourned to the terrace, where they talked 
again, in the soft and delicate interplay of the lighted candles 
in the room and the clear twilight outside. A faint glow in 
the sky marked the position of the fair field, and the band 
was now playing for dancing on the grass. 

It was not until half-past nine that Berice rose to take her 
leave. “ I’m afraid the pastels must wait till another time,” 
she said. 

“ I shall have to drive you back myself — Edwards is 
down with the rest of them at the fair,” Emney said, with 
the first faint embarrassment that had shown in his manner. 

She merely feared that she was putting him to a great deal 
of trouble. ... He even, when the car was brought to the 
door, made the slightest imaginable indication that if she 
preferred it she might take her place in the tonneau ; but 
“ I shall have to show you the way,” she said as she took her 
place by his side. They left ; she waved her hand to her 
uncle ; and he allowed her to dismount and open the gate 
half a mile lower down. She mounted again, and they took 
the road. 

Since their last meeting he had got himself very well in 
hand : he intended to make no mistakes now : and he merely 
resumed their tea-time conversation. He talked without 
removing his eyes from the flying lamplit road. 

“ What I told your uncle about the cricket was merely 
a plain statement of the case,” he said, as they rushed past 
trees and hedges. “ As he says, you must specialize nowa- 
days, if you’re going to do anything. I’ve had to specialize 
in my own business, of course. . , . And my task’s been in a 


1 1 8 


THE EXCEPTION 


sense doubly hard,” he explained, giving the wheel a turn. 
“ You see, I made up my mind quite at the beginning that 
although I was pitched into business I didn’t intend to get 
the money mania. I’d seen too many men who’d promised 
themselves they’d retire from business at a certain age and 
then found they couldn’t do so — no other interest to occupy 
them, you see. I’d seen them on business days, hanging 
round the same old places, talking the same old talk, for 
sheer lack of anything else to do. I used to think what fools 
they were until I saw that they’d simply made their beds 
and had got to lie on them — (shall I put speed on ?) — and then 
I made up my mind that I wasn’t going to have that kind of 
bed. So I began to look about for a hobby. . . . But I’m 
boring you.” 

“ Indeed you’re not,” Berice replied, her eyes on the rushing 
hedges. 

“ Well, tell me when I am. ... So I deliberately safeguarded 
myself against that. I saw it didn’t very much matter what 
I took up so long as it took my mind away from the things 
that filled it during the working time, and I think I’ve a 
natural taste for pictures and all the things I was showing 
you. So I indulged that. The result is, that I have interests 
that begin where those of other men in my position finish ; 
and the odd thing is that I don’t think the business suffers 
in the slightest. . . . Frankly, I regard it as the cleverest 
thing I ever did.” 

“ Yes,” said Berice, half interested, and half wishing she 
had written him the letter of thanks she had spoken of when 
he had met her on the moor. He had, after all, known 
nothing of the inner agitation that had determined her 
abruptness. . . . Emney continued : 

“You see, my father was an English schoolmaster in 
Lanarkshire, and I received the greater part of my educa- 
tion from him before I was seventeen. What’s commonly 
called education, that is ; but it was my dear old mother 
who gave me my real education. She was Scotch, one of 
those Scotchwomen who live only to * get their sons on,’ as 
they call it. She denied herself simply everything that I 
might have my chance. You mightn’t call it much of a 


COTTERDALE 


119 

chance, Miss Beckwith, but it was mine, and I owed it to 
her. . . He paused : it was plain that he had adored his 
mother : and a light sigh had escaped him before he resumed. 
“ She put me into a bank when the few extra shillings I could 
have made at something else meant merely bread-and- 
butter to us — she said she could rub along. And — and . . . 
well, by the time I’d become head cashier it didn’t matter 
very much.” 

He was silent for some minutes, his eyes on the rushing 
road, his hands ceaselessly busy with the wheel. Berice 
gathered that the reason it hadn’t very much mattered had 
been that his mother had died, and she truly believed that 
for the moment he had forgotten her presence. . . . Pre- 
sently he resumed. 

“Yes, that gave me my chance. . . . And if I’d to make 
money again I think I should go the same way about it. 
That was my mother’s idea, too, canny body. ‘ Leave the 
things alone that are worth the while of the big operators, 
Harry,’ she always said ; and I put my small savings after- 
wards into little proprietary businesses that nobody else 
bothered about. No artificially rigged markets then. (But 
don’t think I’d ever have had anything to do with that mill 
of your uncle’s, Miss Beckwith !) It was slow, but sure, and 
I saved money. . . . Then I became London manager, and 
after that I was taken into partnership. ...” 

Again he paused, but this time not for long. He gave a 
little cheerful laugh. “ It was then that I’d time to look 
about me and to see what I could do with my life — for this 
other was simply a means, you see. There were all sorts of 
other things. There was travel, certain tastes I could gratify 
if I wanted, and perhaps even to some extent I could choose 
the company I preferred — these tilings were what I really 

meant by Life, you see. . . . And ” but here he stopped 

abruptly. Perhaps he was thinking of the sweetest com- 
panionship of all it had been — was now — in his power to 
choose. . . . 

“ Yes/’ said Berice absently. . . . 

“ And now I can actually give myself a good many of 
these things. Mind you, I don’t say it’s all been my own 


120 


THE EXCEPTION 


excellent contrivance. I dare say I’ve been lucky too. I 
know better men who haven’t come off so well, poor chaps. 
For all that, I can cut loose and begin to live my own life 
to-morrow if I like. ...” 

It would have been difficult to say, and Berice, now busily 
making small half-contrite admissions on his behalf, was too 
occupied with her own thoughts even to think it, that he was 
insisting a little on his freedom and the things he had both 
opportunity and power to do. Since there was not a word 
that he said that was not simple and honest and true, he had 
every right to speak as he did. If his story stood his friend, 
so much the luckier he. Of his mother he spoke with a 
gentleness and affection that it would have taken a harder 
heart than Berice’s to withstand, and the wonder, after all, 
was that out of so little he had made so much. He was at 
any rate a man of to-day. He had grasped the conditions 
of his age, and had actually made a success of things her 
uncle had only made himself gently ridiculous about. Had 
she known these things before they might not necessarily 
have altered her final estimate of him, but at least that esti- 
mate would have been better based : which, she reflected, 
was as much as to say that if she was right she was so by 
sheer luck again. . . . She mused. . . . 

“ It’s all very new to me,” she murmured. “ It’s all so 
— so very different from anything I’ve — that’s happened 
to me ” 

“ Yes.” He spoke the monosyllable with a sudden lowering 
of his voice, and was then suddenly silent. When presently 
he spoke again it was timidly and haltingly. 

“Different; yes. . . . Yes, I’ve no doubt it’s been different ; 
of course ; one can see that. ... I wonder if I dare. ...” 

He stopped again. She gave him a minute, and then asked 
what — perhaps already half knowing what his answer would 
be. 

He gave a short laugh, however. 

“ Oh, I don’t know ! it’s a silly thing after all. It doesn’t 
matter. Besides, I imagine you know already. I told you 
some of it this afternoon, for that matter. ...” 

For fear lest her surmise might be right she was silent. 


COTTERDALE 


121 


But not so he for long. Though he could not account for it, 
was ignorant of the weight that had oppressed her spirit and 
of the headstrongness and resolution with which she now 
appeared to be throwing it off, he could not but be conscious 
that she was no longer quite the same woman who had 
thoughtlessly taken up a word of his that morning by the 
boulder. And the distance between them seemed to him to 
have diminished still further since, that afternoon on the 
moor, she had almost fled from him at the single word * mar- 
riage/ They got on better altogether now. ... He resumed 
slowly and brokenly, his attention apparently equally divided 
between his own words and the acetjdene-lighted road along 
which they were dashing. 

“ Yes, I told you some of it this afternoon. I’ve told you 
more now. . . . Naturally, a good many things have been 
denied me, things in a sense I’ve a natural right to. . . . 
Some people call them trifling things, but I don’t ; they’re 
tremendously important. They often make all the difference ; 
time and time again I’ve seen it. It’s as if . . . well, I dare 
say you’ll understand that I can see at a glance what it is 
about a picture or a porcelain that stamps it. . . . Believe me, 
it is so. . . .” 

For the first time during their drive she felt uncomfortable. 
Her surmise had been right, and she knew what he meant. . . . 
But — but — if he was really conscious of certain things — 
certain absences, perhaps — in himself, and in his heart 
lamented them, why give them renewed existence by speak- 
ing of them ? He was not quite the man she had supposed 
him to be, perhaps — and yet he was much the same really 

And she thought she saw now whither all his talk had been 
quietly tending. . . . 

She made an awkward remark about the running of the car. 
He shook his head quickly, then, apparently changing his 
mind, he accepted her leading. 

“ Well, I asked you to tell me when I bored you,” he re- 
marked. . . . 

And, though Berice felt sure that he would not do so on 
the present occasion, she remembered again his announce- 
ment that he intended to return to the subject she had so 


122 


THE EXCEPTION 


peremptorily forbidden that afternoon on the moor. He 
was tenacious, and, though his tongue gave it no present 
utterance, it was in his mind now. She was conscious, too, 
that he had got nearer to the root of the whole matter. If 
the raising of the question he had just dropped had meant 
anything at all, it had meant that he threw himself in certain 
things on her mercy ; and though people did not commonly 
throw themselves on Berice Beckwith’s mercy in vain, that 
must remain, for the present at any rate, beside the mark. 
Practically, of course, that could not be allowed to make any 
difference . . . but the fact remained that many things 
were now modified both in herself and in him, and that he 
now appeared as being in some respects a strong, keen, 
capable man, and one whom she could no longer class and 
have done with without a more searching overhauling of 
things within her own breast than she had yet undertaken. 
Nor was she at present disposed to make such an over- 
hauling. Rather than do so, and have so much of Life’s 
sediment stirred up again, she would accept a good many 
things in no matter whom without question, and would 
waive a good many superiorities, real or fancied, in herself. 
If he had found the right way with her — she was not blind 
to this possible aspect of the question — well, once more, so 
much the better for him if he could convince her that he had. 
She was there to be convinced, and perhaps the readier that 
she thought his chance, after all, but small. These things, 
too, belonged to the Life with which she was newly in love. 
The living was the thing. Life included inequalities, discrepan- 
cies, imperfections, shortcomings without number, and to 
refuse to meet and treat with these would be to limit Life. 
She was for adventures and coming out into the open. If 
risks were run and forfeits known, both risks and forfeits must 
be accepted. It took at least two people to live a life, and 
the other party, this man whose hands moved on the steering- 
wheel or whoever, ran risks and was to be cast in penalties 
also. If it should come to that, well, let it come ; ten to one 
she would have to refuse him : let him look after himself, as 
she would take care of herszM. . . . 

She sat by his side in the car, defiant, confident, conscious 


COTTERDALE 


123 

of her own every fibre, conscious of him, and almost ready 
to cry out with her intense consciousness of that Life that 
seemed to beckon smilingly to her from afar. 

The silence that had fallen on the pair of them lasted for 
the rest of the journey. When, setting her down at Under- 
shaws, he broke it, it was merely to say that he was glad 
she had been able to join their little impromptu picnic and to 
bid her good night. He left. She went straight to her room. 
Pleasurable sensations of excitement occupied her as she 
undressed ; they accompanied her to her pillow ; and in 
the steady tingling of them she slept immediately. Twice 
during the night she awoke, each time to recognize with a 
little thrill that the haggard old burden was still unimposed 
upon her ; and as long as that was withheld, the mere con- 
tinuance of living was a delight. 


XIII 


S HE awoke in the same lovely fallacy of mood. Her 
bedroom window stood wide open, and the curtains 
floated into the room on the morning breeze. She got out of 
bed and stood barefooted at the window. The lily garden 
below was a light smoking of drying dew ; the air thrilled 
with the singing of birds ; and the farmyard cocks called 
rousingly up and down the Dale. She drew a deep breath, 
and then crossed humming to the dressing-table. Among 
the objects of leather and silver and crystal that littered 
it lay a couple of books. They were the books Emney had 
lent her. She opened one of them at random, and her eyes 
read on as she dressed her hair. It was the A ubade of Bartholo- 
mew, and presently she turned the page and continued to 
read as her hand felt for brushes. . . . 

Oiselette, Fierabras, Garde Joyeuse . . . the jewelled 
names seemed to sparkle and flash on the page as the dew 
on the petals outside shot its tiny rays of amber and emerald 
and rose. She laughed a little, and laughed at herself for 
laughing. If these gay and irrepressible longings of the spirit 
were an illusion, so doubtless had her heavy hours been ; 
illusion, too, was in its way a fact, and the only fact that mat- 
tered on this brilliant morning. She nodded, as it were, 
health and long life to illusion, finished her dressing, and 
went downstairs to breakfast singing. 

All the forenoon the joyous possession lasted. In its 
dominance over her heart Mrs. Finch-Ommaney ceased to 
be trying, and Berice to be tried. At midday the distant 
throbbing of music began again in the fair field, and again it 
seemed to cry to Berice, “ Life, Life, Life ! ” She was walk- 
ing with Mrs. Finch-Ommaney in the garden when the music 

124 


COTTERDALE 125 

began again : her foot beat in time to it ; and when Mrs. 
Finch-Ommaney, glancing covertly at her and then dropping 
her dark-fringed lids, murmured, “ Won’t you go to the 
Feast again, Berice darling ? I’m sure you need the change,” 
she blithely took the words in a manner she knew not to be 
meant. 

* Yes, if you think you can spare me,” she replied. . . . 

Three o’clock found her in the fair field once more. She 
had walked there. Almost the first person she met was 
Emney, alone ; he had come down to ask the judge of the 
brazen strife of William Tell to have tea and early dinner 
at Skirethorns before taking train home again. This had 
been a custom of Everard Beckwith’s, and apparently Emney 
wished it to continue. He said so as he and Berice passed 
behind the gaudy striped sheeting of a cocoanut-shy which 
flapped and rippled in the breeze. 

“He’s an organist from one of the West Riding towns, and 
his heart and soul are in his work,” Emney said. “ I should 
have appreciated the attention if it had been shown to me 
at one time. I like to help a man who likes the things I 
like — I suppose we all do. There’s Bartholomew, for instance, 
who wrote the Aubade. I found him in the Poet’s Corner of 
some local newspaper or other, and he was pretty well at 
his last gasp. I paid for the publication of his first book 
of poems, and he hasn’t looked behind him since. Fm 
proud of that. — And Keigwyn, too, I dug out of a shabby 
studio in Chelsea. — Yes, I like doing it.” 

“ I glanced at the Aubade this morning,” said Berice. 

“ Then you may glance at — to all intents and purposes — 
its publisher in me,” he laughed. 

She, too, laughed. “ I hope you’re omniscient, if you stand 
as a kind of omnipotence to these people.” 

“ Oh, I think that’s all right,” he replied. “ Perhaps 
Keigwyn isn’t exactly the kind of man you make a personal 
friend of, but Bartholomew’s all right. — How do you like 
the Aubade? Do you think I was justified ? . . .” 

They continued to walk and talk. Presently they had 
come to the wall of the fair field, and were at the foot of the 
path that led up the Fell. Berice had not escaped from 


126 THE EXCEPTION 

Undershaws for the purpose of going immediately back again ; 
and she wanted to see the whole of the fair at once from a little 
way up the Fell. He followed at her heels. In a few minutes 
the fair ground was below them, a mass of men and women 
ever moving yet ever remaining in the same place, like the 
globules of midges one sees in the air of a summer’s evening. 
The rising and falling of the swing-boats was foreshortened ; 
the babble of cries and shots and trumpets had diminished ; 
and their own voices sounded more loudly when they spoke. 
The path, which had been narrow, presently allowed them 
to walk side by side again ; they followed it to a point beyond 
which they would have had to scramble over boulders ; and 
Berice selected a gentle slope of grass and sat down. He 
stretched himself by her side. 

As he did so, it was with the foreknowledge that before 
they rose to their feet again he would once more have said 
that for which he would now hardly find a more likely oppor- 
tunity. He did not know the precise date of her and her 
uncle’s departure, but he knew that it was imminent. Did 
he allow her to leave with the thing he had to say unsaid he 
would be false to that urging that had kept him wakeful 
during the whole of the previous night and during the greater 
part of nights before that ; and it seemed to him that his 
slow and carefully planned career would miss of its finest 
fruition. 

For during years of struggling he had ever dreamed of 
that brighter crown and fulfilment than any he had spoken 
of during their drive the evening before. Those possessions 
the delight in which he had so solicitously fostered were in 
themselves no more than a setting for this possession more 
precious still. Perhaps the fewness of women in his life had 
made him accessible to impossible hopes, had filled him with 
unrealizable desires ; but he thought he had found her in 
whose hands it lay to fulfil or to falsify all, and he was 
prepared to abide by the throw. And any risk that might 
attend his seizure of the present occasion he must accept or 
else lose his chance for ever. 

" Do you yet know when you are leaving ? ” he asked, 
after a long silence. 


COTTERDALE 


127 

She replied, in ten days at the latest. She, too, had been 
conscious of the quality of that protracted silence. 

“Ten days . . .” he repeated musingly ; and, as on that 
former morning by the boulder above the mountain stream, 
began to bore at the bents with the point of his stick. “ Ten 
days. . . 

She knew now what was coming, and that its coming must 
not find her unready. She now sought to secure a firm hold 
on herself. 

The last time Emney had approached the subject he was 
now obviously about to approach again, she had hardly 
heard six words before there had sprung up before her eyes 
a spectre that had prohibited her from listening one moment 
longer. Long, long ago, she had told herself plainly that, 
save on an inflexible condition, she could not marry any man ; 
and that such a condition should exist at all had determined 
the answer she had had to give to Emney. What had hap- 
pened to modify that condition that the question she knew 
was coming and the answer she supposed she must still give 
showed in a different light now ? She strove to get such a 
comprehensive view of the events of the last few days as she 
had of the bustling fair field below. . . . 

By dint of application, and a little forcing of the perspec- 
tive, she began to see more clearly. The condition was still 
there . . . but it was a condition, not a complete forbiddance 
— that was to say, it was something to be envisaged, weighed, 
and then embraced or refused as this consideration or that 
should finally preponderate. The mere thought of telling 
Emney what she must tell him was not now a thing to be 
instantly and for ever banished from her mind as an utter 
impossibility. It was not an utter impossibility, and as a 
possibility it was something to be examined if she was to 
prove herself worthy of the adventurous Life for which she 
so panted. True, the memory of past fears still caused her 
to tremble, as a child trembles even when the bogy that has 
terrified him in the dark is stripped in broad daylight before 
his eyes ; but her tremor was at the memory of the bogy, 
and not at the bogy. Fearfully, and already prepared to 
start back at its slightest movement, Berice examined her 


128 


THE EXCEPTION 


bogy. It did not now instantly fasten itself tooth and talon 
upon her. In her new gaiety and wilfulness she found strength 
to resist it. She looked at it again more boldly, and again 
more boldly still ; and its turnip head and end of guttered 
candle seemed to show. The sun shpne brightly ; her heart 
was swelled with hope ; and the thing that for so long had 
ridden her seemed to show plainly at last for what it was — 
mere rag and broomstick, leering out of the twilight of the 
past. . . . Such as it was, of course, rag and broomstick, it 
was still there ; but she had no intention of relighting its 
candle in order to prove to herself that she was still capable 
of a shudder. 

Then she began to see more clearly still. Between her 
present state and the state she must be in before she could 
accept the man at her side (always supposing she desired to 
accept him — a desire to be examined presently did she 
decide that it was worth while to examine it) — between 
these two states a condition stood ; but that condition was 
not, so to speak, the original thing, but the making known 
of that thing. The thing once made known, the condition 
would be fulfilled. It was less her heart than her confidence 
that she had refused him that afternoon on the moor. And 
that had been natural. Their acquaintance had not been 
such as to warrant, even in return for the honour he did her, 
such a confidence. He had not come close enough to her 
even, so to speak, to be refused. — But things were different now. 
She did not know that she was accounting as a great change 
in him what was only a possession, and a transitory one, in 
herself. She only knew that the gulf that had seemed to lie 
between them did not now appear so impassable that it was 
not worth while to consider whether, should bridging seem 
desirable, it was not possible to bridge it. What favour he 
found, had he but known it, was but a consequence of her 
flinging off of that ancient spectre from the plaguing of which 
she was granted a temporary release. 

He had not ceased to bore in the grass with his stick. He 
now stopped, and spoke again. 

“ Do you remember ” — she knew it was upon her before 
he had finished* saying ‘ Do you remember ’ — “ Do you 


COTTERDALE 


129 

remember what I said one afternoon not long ago — perhaps 
you’ve forgotten it, but I haven’t — something that I said I— • 
I should do ? ” His tone was very quiet. 

“ Yes,” she replied as quietly as he. 

M You know what I mean ? That there was something I 
should ask you again ? . . 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, I must say it again now. I can only hope that your 
reply won’t be the same. I’d have waited, but there’s so 
little time left. Ten days. ... I love you,” he continued 
earnestly and awkwardly as a boy. “ I know that’s no 
reason why you should love me, but I should be prouder 
than of anything I’ve ever done or been if you did. Perhaps 
I oughtn’t to say it, but I think you do know me a little 
better now — I hope so. I don’t mean that the longer you 
knew me the better you’d find me — I’m afraid there’d be 
heaps of shortcomings you’d discover ; but I do mean that 
I’m not afraid of your finding out other things — I mean 
conduct and so on — about me. Believe rffe, that’s all quite, 
quite clean. I’m not good enough for you ; I never shall be ; 
I know that, but I offer you all of myself, not a bit, and 
things kept back ” 

Berice wondered that one at least of his halting phrases 
should, by virtue of the miracle that had happened to her, 
be robbed of the sting it would have had for her not long 
before. That it had no sting seemed an indication that her 
bogy was completely laid. There was no question of his 
sincerity, and the fleeting wonder she had had before, whether 
in allowing himself to be “ known ” he had deliberately 
4 taken a line ’ with her, vanished as quickly as it came. 
He was silent again, again prodding at the ground as he 
awaited her reply. 

And now that, not the mere abstract possibility of a hus- 
band, but a tangible and individual lover, was presented to 
her, she was not quite ready after all to give that reply. She 
must have a little more time. Her eyes had wandered away 
over the noisy fair field and wei*e looking down the Dale. 

“ Please don’t speak for a little while,” she said, and began 
to think again. V 


THE EXCEPTION 


130 

She had already faced, tentatively and half-heartedly, cer- 
tain preliminaries, of conditions and so forth, and was now 
face to face with the heart of the matter. And, now that she 
faced it, it came to her with a shock that the heart of the 
matter was after all of secondary importance. Did she love 
him ? No ; but then it was not quite a question of love. 
Love was not expressly excluded • it might even happen to 
become included : but it was not the beginning and end of 
the matter. In her new mood love seemed a petty and 
private thing by comparison with that greater, wider thing 
for which her whole being now cried aloud. Did she tell him 
so, that, she knew, would suit him well enough ; Life he 
could already offer her, and love, he would doubtless say, 
would come hereafter ; men were creatures of such confi- 
dence. ... In the meantime, love remained the unknown 
quantity in the bargain. 

The bargain ? . . . The word struck her. Yes, it was a 
bargain. On the one hand was his attitude, whatever that 
might prove to be, when she had made her condition known ; 
on the other — her eyes closed for a moment — on the other 
were leisure, larger interests, new scenes, peoples, tongues, 
manners ... in a word. Life. All depended on the way 
in which he should receive her condition. . . . 

^ Not for an instant did she think of flinching from that 
condition. No base temptation came near her. She did not 
know how she could make it known to him, but made known 
it must be. She could have asked for further time, a few 
days longer, for consideration, but it was not time that she 
wanted. It was rather knowledge of him. She wanted, 
before admitting him into the secret place of her life, to know 
how he would demean himself there. She did not know his 
point of view, and only from himself could she obtain it. 
How obtain it ? Apparently it could be obtained only by 
taking the plunge. . . . 

That she hesitated to take the plunge might in itself have 
warned her. Deeply and obscurely in herself she knew that 
there was only one way of telling him— she must tell him 
rawly and at once if ever she was to tell him at all. Not to 
tell him at all was frightful, inconceivable ; but the other ! 


COTTERDALE 


131 

... To put herself so utterly in his power — to await with 
bowed head his decision — his condemnation, perhaps — his 
rejection ! . . . No, she could not bring herself to that. 
The gladness of the day, the merry turmoil of the field below, 
the brave new ebullience of her spirits, all cried aloud to 
her that she was rid of her spectre — rid of it, rid of it ! And, 
a free and unridden spirit, she could not so unconditionally 
trust this so curiously boyish, middle-aged suitor. There- 
fore, as one has seen lads, distrustful of one another, refuse 
in an exchange to relinquish their hold on the one thing 
until the other is safely within their grasp, so she sought to 
sound him while committing herself to nothing. She cast 
swiftly about for impossible compromises. 

When at last she spoke it was without looking at him. 

“ I do feel that something — something has happened — I 
don’t know what it is — to change matters between us. They 
are somehow different — not so different as you think, per- 
haps ” she murmured, her fingers making little pleats of 

the stuff of her skirt. 

“ Ah,” he breathed ardently, “ if you only knew how 
different you had made me ! ” 

She smoothed out the series of pleats, and began another 
series. 

“ I wasn’t thinking of that ; or rather, I was thinking of 
wyself. There are the two sides to the question. After all, 
you don’t know very much about me .” 

“ What I don’t know I’ll risk,” he said, with an adoring 
smile. 

Again she pleated. 

“ But I might prefer that you didn’t risk anything. There 
might be something — as a matter of fact there is something 
— that I feel I ought to tell you.” She looked up, and smoothed 
the whole of the pleating away. 

The adoring look had faded from his face. He had dropped 
his eyes to the ground again. His voice was slow and hesitat- 
ing and serious. 

“ If you’ll forgive me for making a guess,” he said, “ I 
think I already know what it is.” 

She gave a little involuntary “ Oh ! ” and turned to him, 


1 32 THE EXCEPTION 

but immediately looked away again. She wondered what he 
thought he knew. 

“ Shall I tell you ? ” he said. 

*“ Yes.” 

“ And may I even mention a name ? ” he asked diffidently. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Lionel Finch-Ommaney ? . . .” 

She was not quick enough to smother another “ Oh ! ” on 
her lips. It was as if the mere sound of the name, apart from 
its significance, had still a little power to sting. He continued 
quickly. 

“ I see I'm right. Well, so much the better. My knowing 
spares you the pain of having to tell me — for I can quite 
understand that it would be a pain ” 

Her heart was thumping violently. She turned to him with 
a queer, painful little laugh. 

“You mean that we ? ” 

“Yes,” he said, with an odd precipitancy that was only 
to spare her the possible pain of having to complete the 
sentence. . . , 

But she knew very well that he didn’t know anything at 
all, and again she could hardly contain a smile. His con- 
struction of her relation with Lionel Finch-Ommaney might 
vary from Neill’s in detail, but substantially, she knew, it 
would be the same. Her safety, too, would be the same, 
and doubtless he, like Neill, found her magnificent. . . . 

She then, after many seconds, found herself asking in a low 
voice, “ And don’t you want to know more about it ? ” 

“ I don’t want to know anything,” he replied. From some 
impulse of untaught chivalry he refrained from looking at her. 

' She knew not what mingling of amusement and despair 
she found in it. “ It makes no difference ? ” she said, know- 
ing herself to be perfectly safe. . . . 

“ None.” 

“ Truly ? ” 

“ Truly.” 

She might have prolonged the teasingly poignant pastime 
almost indefinitely, but suddenly he broke into low, rapid, 
passionate speech. 


COTTERDALE 


133 

“ Oh, do let me tell you how I see it ! ” he implored. “ We 
have met each other late. Of course, your life wasn’t at a 
standstill before I came into it, but don’t tell me, don’t, dear, 
what it has been — I only know, and I only want to know, 
that it’s been beautiful. He’s dead now ; that’s all over ; 
and I offer you something else. If it hasn’t the same sort 
of beauty — it can’t have, I know — but perhaps it has another. 
Perhaps it has even a wider and larger one. You can’t go on 
living in a kind of vestal dream however beautiful it is : if 
you try to you’ll find it’s like breathing the same air over and 
over again — it will get vitiated. You can’t do that. If that 
lovely dream’s gone, let me give you something else, some- 
thing real. Keep all you have that’s precious to you ; I’ll 
never, never disturb it ; but give me — I won’t even say give 
me love, but just a chance to love you and be loved ! Just 
a chance, Berice — just a chance ” 

He had seized her hand that lay on the grass. He was 
shaken with emotion. She, too, was suddenly moved. 

“ Oh, how can I — how can I ? ” she muttered agitatedly, 
more to herself than to him. 

He answered for himself. 

“ Ah, you can, you can ! Leave the past, dear ! You can’t 
go forward looking behind you ; that’s a dream — it might 
not ever have been fulfilled — and it isn’t a dream that I’m 
offering you ! All I have at present, if I have that — if you’re 
so good as to give me that — is companionship ; a little while 
ago I hadn’t that ; perhaps in a little while I shall have more 
still — you don’t know ” 

She gav6 a foolish, bewildered laugh. “ More companion- 
ship ? ” 

“ Ah, no — love ! ” 

She looked at him ; there was worship in his face ; she 
looked away again. Against his adoration she could make no 
headway. '. . . 

Then it was as if a perverse imp within her suddenly raised 
its head, grinned, and said, “You see how he regards you ; 
you can’t, short of four stark words, shake his belief in you ; 
nay, even those words won't do it — try it — try it ! ” . . . 

She obeyed the imp, and tried it. 


THE EXCEPTION 


134 

“ A moment ago,” she said, carefully choosing her words, 
“ you spoke of vestal dreams. I assure you, on my word, 
that that doesn’t in the least apply to me.” 

He gave her another worshipping look. “ Ah, you think 
so, because you’ve no knowledge of life — nothing to compare 
things with — believe me, you haven’t ! ” 

The imp within her smiled. 

“ I think — I’m sure — I know I have,” she continued. 

Emney merely laughed gently. . . . 

“You think it’s impossible that I should have ? ” she 
demanded. 

“ I should say quite impossible,” he replied. 

“ And if I tell you again that you’re wrong you’ll still say 
that it’s my inexperience that’s talking ? ” 

“ I think you anticipate me pretty nearly. I shouldn’t 
have used quite those words.” 

With a triumphant “ What did I tell you ? ” the imp 
within her retired into the fastnesses of her heart again. 

Her condition, that indispensable condition, was becoming 
harder to face with each moment that passed. The minutes, 
slipping by, enabled him to muster his reasons and to array 
them against her, and these reasons now had a fire and 
smoulder to which her opposition only added fuel. The same 
minutes, on the other hand, left her at the same standstill, 
incapable of saying anything without saying all, and still 
shrinking instinctively from that complete putting of herself 
into his power. . . . 

And then suddenly she found herself wondering whether 
he himself quite understood why he wished to marry her. 
And this again was difficult and delicate. She was not sure 
whether he did. He said, of course, that he loved her ; he 
said it in perfect good faith ; but she wondered whether, 
under circumstances easily conceivable, another woman 
would not have served him equally well. These * circum- 
stances easily conceivable ’ she presented to herself allusively 
and by impalpable likenesses. She knew him to be, as it 
were, a climber, reaching out a hand upwards, counting all 
below as nothing ; and she remembered how in climbing 
ascent was easier than descent. He had used the word 


COTTERDALE 135 

‘ vestal ’ ; but his eyes, perhaps, were not solely fixed on 
the skyey glacier of her vestalship. He had told her his 
story, an honourable one ; he had confessed that there were 
things he lacked which, in his own words, made all the differ- 
ence ; and he had allowed it to be inferred that he found these 
things in her. ... As in some subterranean place of gloom 
a g re y glimmer of light appears to the stumbler, so, far ahead 
and dimly seen, she began to discern a way out. . . . 

She turned to him. 

“ Why do you want to do this — the whole thing — at all ? ” 
she asked frankly. 

Fondness, and a little incomprehension, were in his look as 
he replied : 

“ Why ? . . . But I’ve said that I love you ! * 

“ Is that all ? ” 

“ All / ” But for the fondness, the incomprehension 

would have hurt him. 

“ I’ll tell you why I ask,” she continued. “ It’s as much 
for your sake as mine. I ask because it seems to me that 
anything there might be between us would be a good deal 
in the nature of a bargain.” 

“ A bargain ? ” he echoed. 

“ Let me explain.” She paused for a moment, and then 
continued resolutely. “ Of course, there’s one thing I cannot 
give you ; you know that, and as I understand, you accept 
it — without knowing or asking very much about it, I can’t 
help thinking. It seems to me that we attach quite different 
degrees of importance to it, and I tell you frankly that if I 
were in your place I should hesitate. But never mind that 
for the moment. As you say, it’s past, and I think if I’d my 
life to live over again I’d — I’d give less — keep more.” 

He nodded. He had heard of the sentimental lingering 
women make over the memory of the first kiss . . . especially 
in this restricted Dale in which she had lived all her life it 
would seem a great thing. . . . 

She continued. 

“ But let’s get on.— -I said a bargain ; that’s out of the 
bargain, then ; and, of course, it’s because it is out of it that 
it becomes a bargain. Very well ; let’s see what remains. 


1 36 THE EXCEPTION 

I have — what I have ; and you . . . but let me thank you 
for one thing before we go any further : you haven’t men- 
tioned the very obvious advantages to me.” 

“ Oh ! ” he interpolated deprecatingly, perhaps really hurt 
that she should think him capable of mentioning them. 

“ I’m sorry,” she said rather hardly, “ but you mustn’t 
mind my putting things in this argumentative sort of way ; 
you’ll see why I do it presently. — I know what I have to 
gain, then, but I still don’t think you realize ” 

He cut her short impetuously. “ Oh, you overrate ” 

he began, with a quick gesture. 

She cut him equally short. “ The importance to you of 
my relation with Lionel Finch-Ommaney ? I do not ! ” 

“ You do, you do — you do entirely ! That’s past, past, 
I say ! Oh, how can I make you see ? You would 
see, you would, if only you would trust yourself to me. 
Tell me ” 

But he broke off abruptly, as Berice put up her hand. 

“ No, you tell me ,” she commanded, in a slightly raised 
voice. “You tell me — what the things are you would de- 
mand in a wife.” 

“ The things ? ” 

“Yes. Tell me.” 

“The things. . . . Why, what does one commonly 'de- 
mand in a wife ’ ? ” 

“ Tell me.” 

“Tell you ? . . . Are you serious ? ... Do you mean — 
catalogue them ? . . .” 

“ Yes, if you like.” 

He spoke with some amusement, but also with energy. 
“ I’m afraid I don’t quite see the joke ... but never mind: 
here goes for the model wife.— I should demand such love as 
she could give me— I would respect privacies, of course, 
and should demand them myself — I should ask for 
obedience in such things as we both thought, or I thought, 
might affect our happiness— respect for my name and so on 
— and— and— I won’t insult you by mentioning anything 
else. ... Is that more than you could give ? ” 

Berice had begun the pleating of her frock again. 


COTTERDALE 


137 

“ No,” she said slowly, “ it is not more than I — could 
give.” 

His amusement had vanished. 

“And I would give — everything — and such a love! — ”, he 
pleaded touchingly. 

Well, she had it spread out before her now, almost complete. 
One more question, and then nothing remained for her but 
to make her choice. . . . With dropped head, and in a 
whisper that brought him nearer to her, she murmured : 

“ And Lionel . . . whatever, whatever that was ? . . .” 

He, too, might have been warned. She had raised her eyes 
slowly again, and they were widely, poringly, searchingly, 
fearfully on his, not for one second, but steadily for many 
seconds. Except by those rounds of troubled blue further 
sounding of him was impossible ,* she could only make that 
deep plummet-cast into his soul and then, sink or swim, 
mutter a prayer and follow it herself. If the seas of his 
love would bear her up, well ; if not, there was no further 
help. . . . 

And that look, too, allowed him to see, if he would but 
look, all that lay at the bed and bottom of her own. It 
acknowledged, confessed, published, proclaimed aloud. Surely, 
surely, her heart frantically cried, if one may lie by a silence 
one may tell truth by a look ! All, all was for his taking in 
that look. How else than by a look could she speak ? How 
else ? By words ? Such a bleeding plucking-forth as that ? 
... By more torturing indirections ? He would only give 
them love-blind, honouring, false interpretations ! ... By 
refusal, now and for always, of what he asked ? It would be 
the best. . . . 

And, as if she saw suddenly for the first time what she 
had been on the brink of doing, she fell back in terror from 
her own self-beguilings. It was as if the glare of the pit was 
in her eyes and the reek of its sulphur in her nostrils ; she 
covered her face with her hands and shuddered. No, not 
that — not that ! “ No, no, no — you shall not marry me!” 

she cried, with sudden frenzy. 

But his face was grimly set. He knew whether he would 
marry her or not ! “I will marry you ! ” he muttered. 


1 38 THE EXCEPTION 

“ No — no 1’’ Her cry was sharp and broken ; a quick 

bodily pain might have caused such a cry. “ No — no ” 

“ In a month — a week — to-morrow,” came from him. 

“ No, no — I daren’t — I can’t— it would be — I will not ! ” 

“ Ah, you will ! — you do ! ” He could scarcely get out 
the words for joy. 

“ No — you must know — he was my lover — my lover / ” 

It was piercing, but it was too late. He had seized her 
hand ; his grip tightened upon it until the knuckles showed 
white through the strained skin. By force she held him 
away at arm’s length, regardless that they could be seen 
from the fair field below. In her eyes was a wild and affrighted 
dancing ; she was past all questions but one now. 

“ Do you understand ? . . .” 

He understood nothing save that he wanted her and could 
have her. His own eyes were like hot bolts in his face. His 
other hand had clutched her free one now, and, suddenly 
looking round sharply, he forced the cluster of hands out of 
sight down in the grass, bringing his face nearer to hers. 

“ My love, my love, my love ! ” he panted, while her own 
breath came in a succession of little sobs. For the last 
time she cried : 

“ Your eyes are open — I’ve told you — never say I haven’t 
told you — I always vowed I would tell, and I have told. 
Never dare to say I haven’t ! ” 

Now that words meant nothing she repeated them almost 
mechanically over and over again, as if many nothings might 
miraculously make something . . . * Let him never say she 
had not told him all . . . never let him reproach her with 
that ! ’ . . . 

“ Ah, it is yes ! — Berice, Berice, Berice ! ” he cried raptur- 
ously, holding her away. 

One more look she gave him, a lifetime of a look ; the next 
moment he had flung himself backwards on the grass, ex- 
hausted as if with a violent physical effort. She had covered 
her eyes with a hand on which the four bloodless marks of 
his fingers still showed. She was sobbing convulsively, but 
with dry eyes. . . . 

He had — he had — he must have understood ! 


COTTER!) ALE 


139 

And in that moment, with the rags and candle and broom- 
stick of her bogy lying dismembered about her — with the 
sound of her own voice still ringing in her ears and crying, 
“Never say I haven’t told you !” — in her utter exhaustion — 
and in the memory of that long uncurtaining look with which 
she had searched his soul and laid naked to his gaze all that 
was at the bottom of her own — she could almost have be- 
lieved that she had uttered the words themselves. 


XIV 


HAT evening they massed the bands in the fair field 



1 for the final performance of William Tell. The brazen 
eructation reached Berice’s ears as she walked in the lily 
garden at Undershaws. She was alone. She was awaiting 
the letter which, as she had broken away from Emney that 
afternoon, asking him not to follow her, he had said he would 


send. 


She was restless and excited. Four hours had elapsed 
since that stressful scene on the hillside above the fair field, 
but she suffered from no reaction. Her mind remained, if 
necessarily at a slightly lesser, still at a high and sustained 
altitude, and it was likely to remain so. That culminating 
scene had not been a new and isolated thing ; it had had a 
long and gradually intensifying backing in her recent experi- 
ence ; and she knew that a hundred practical matters would 
presently engage her, to the exclusion of overmuch thought 
and reconsideration. With one of these practical matters, in- 
deed, ’'a ridiculously trifling one, she was already occupied as she 
moved among the sealed lilies and the scented night-flowering 
tobacco plants. She was wondering by what name she could 
address her accepted suitor. 

“ Ta-ra-ra, la-ra-ra, ta-ra-ra, ra, ra. . . The brazen 
sounds came steadily and unfluctuatingly on the still air. 
It was the climax of the Feast. To-morrow Cotterdale and 
Ridsdale would return to their daily labour again, the richer 
by an experience ; to-morrow she, too, would be busy — the 
busier the better. There would be the interview with her 
uncle j Mrs. Finch-Ommaney and Celia would have to be 
told ; and there would be Emney himself to see. . . . What 
could she call him ? Until a week ago she had hardly, even 


COTTERDALE 14 1 

in thought, dowered him with the particularity of a name at 
all, and even now “ Dear Mr. Emney ” would have seemed 
a not inappropriate beginning of the reply she would presently 
have to write. But that was manifestly absurd. “ Harrison ” 
was awkward, probably by reason of its being also a surname ; 
and mere avoidance, even at the beginning, was self-conscious. 
On the whole, she thought “ Harry ” would serve. It was 
the name by which he had said his mother had called him, 
it escaped being ridiculous, and at the same time it com- 
mitted her to little beyond what she had insisted on calling 
their “ bargain.”. . . 

It was as “ My dear Harry ” that she addressed him in her 
reply to the note that was presently brought to her — a note 
that contained pretty much what she had expected it to con- 
tain. Nothing could be done until they should have met 
again, and it was with their next meeting that the letter was 
concerned. He could hardly wait upon her at Mrs. Finch- 
Ommaney’s house ; he could not ask her to wait upon him 
at Skirethorns ; and apparently he left it to her to suggest 
an alternative. The letter dictated its own reply ; she wrote 
that she would go to Skirethorns — to see her uncle. In another 
letter she informed Everard of her intention. She sent off 
her two notes, and joined Mrs. Finch-Ommaney and Celia 
in the drawing-room. 

Mrs. Finch-Ommaney was in her mood of mildest laxity. 
Neill, it appeared, had called that afternoon, and had told 
her that the memorial would be ready for casting within a 
month. Even Berice, ignorant as she was of sculptors and 
their methods, knew what that meant. Neill had, to all 
intents and purposes, thrown it up. He was treating the 
thing as a mere “job,” such as an inferior man could have 
acquitted himself of equally well, and was taking the risk of 
the damage to his fame should a man with eyes in his head 
ever come across his work in the remote country church. 

Neither Celia nor Mrs. Finch-Ommaney appeared to notice 
that Berice’s spirits were at an unusual tension ; the talk 
never left the subject of the memorial the whole evening ; 
and when Berice went to bed it was to dream that the 
organist who judged the ‘ arrangement ' of William Tell 


142 THE EXCEPTION 

took a trumpet from Berice’s hand and told her that 
she was blowing something called a ‘condition’ into it so 
loudly that he could not hear the other instruments. . . . 

It was lest she herself should make a false beginning by 
exceeding the terms of their compact that, the next morning, 
at Skirethorns, she cut down her private interview with 
Emney to ten minutes. It was better to begin with reticence 
and reserve rather than to take a course at the beginning 
from which subsequent retirement might prove difficult. She 
told herself that she had granted, not love, but the chance to 
love and be loved ; he saw her interpretation of their relation 
in her eyes ; and it was from a fear of frightening her that, 
placing a chair for her and himself taking another one re- 
assuringly removed from it, he for the present accepted that 
interpretation. Was it, he asked, her wish that their betrothal 
should be announced immediately ? She replied that, unless 
he particularly wished it otherwise, she saw no reason why it 
should not be announced. Did she further wish, he asked, 
that they should be married without any great delay ? She 
replied nervously that since no hot young passion was on its 
probation their period of betrothal — usually an opportunity 
for a decent breaking off should it be discovered that a mis- 
take had been made — need not be long. The coming autumn ? 
he suggested. Yes, she replied, that would do. . . . 

“ Then,” he said, “ there’s the question of where I’m to 
put myself in the meantime. Under the circumstances 
you’ll hardly want to stay where you are, and I should like 
to offer you this house. I myself will go to London ; I 
should have to do so for a week or a fortnight in any case. 
Then, for the days immediately before our wedding, I could 
put up at the ‘ Racehorses.’ ” 

Berice thanked him. “ But you won’t need to put up at 
the ‘ Racehorses,’ ” she said. “ Sir John Hartopp’s certain 
to ask either you or my uncle and myself to go and stay 
with him.” 

“ But you’d prefer that in the meantime I went to London?” 
he asked. 

“ Why should I ? ” she asked, embarrassed. 

“ I — I don’t know,” he replied, smiling a little. “ I merely 


COTTERDALE 


143 

ask you. It shall be just as you wish. I gather that this is 
strictly a business interview, so it's best not to beat about 
the bush. By the way,” he smiled again, “ I might get the 
better of you in a business interview ; I hope you’ve thought 
of that.” 

Berice nodded ; she preferred to leave even the mildest 
jesting alone for the present. “You mean what I called a 
bargain. We needn’t go into that again. It’s better to face 
the facts : then if they turn out to be romantic after all so 
much the better. That’s partly why I should like to get 
the preliminaries over and begin on a regular footing as soon 
as possible.” 

He smiled again. “ I must say I’d personally rather think 
of all the beautiful things that are in front of us,” he said, 
“ but just as you prefer. Perhaps it’s wise not to begin by 

expecting too much. All the same ” the affectionate 

smile told her that he thought she was overdoing even this. 

They talked for a little while longer, in much the same 
strain of awkwardness and reserve ; and then she said, 
“ Would you mind if I told my uncle at once, this morning ? ” 

“ Not in the very least.” 

“ Then I think I’ll do so now.” 

She rose. He rose also and moved towards her. . . . 

Five minutes later she came out with a heightened colour 
in her cheeks and a quickened and more conscious look in her 
eyes. Bargains may be bargains, but betrothal is also be- 
trothal. She was a little relieved, too, that one experience 
to which, truth to tell, she had looked forward with some 
trepidation had proved, natural shyness apart, not intoler- 
able. . . . She sought her uncle. 

She found him in the plantation. She took his arm and 
walked with him for a minute or two ; then, in as few words 
as possible, she stated the bare facts. Everard nodded many 
times, and pulled his moustache as she talked. . . . 

“ Yes— yes,” he said, from time to time : and " I see— I 
see ” 

Then, after many minutes of moustache-pulling and yes, 
yessing, and very much to her surprise, it appeared that 
Everard also took the matter in some sense as a bargain. 


THE EXCEPTION 


144 

For some minutes she was puzzled, and even a little 
shocked, for, though he allowed her complete liberty, 
and would no more have thought of proffering advice 
unasked than he would have thought of opening her 
letters, he loved her dearly. And yet a stranger, noting 
the manner in which he received her news, might have 
formed conclusions from which the ideas of interest and 
cupidity would not have been absent. . . . Then suddenly 
Berice caught a muttered phrase, saw, and laughed. It was 
a jacket. Everard had all at once developed a full-blown 
sense of the absoluteness of the words “ black and white.” 
For once in his life he was going to “ have something down 
in black and white.” What it was to be was a matter of 
minor importance so long as the black-and-whiteness of it 
was all right. He murmured vaguely about settlements, 

‘ own rights,’ wills. . . . 

“ You see, Berice,” he rumbled in his richest jacket voice, 
“ I only mention this because I take the rest, your happiness 
and so on, as a matter of course. You’re a sensible girl, and 
I’m sure you wouldn’t go into this unless you believed you 
were going to be happy ; so that’s taken for granted from 
the start. I won’t say I’m not rather surprised ; Emney’s 
not exactly the chap I should have expected you to take ; 
but that’s all right as long as you’re happy. . . . I’ve 
wanted, Berice,” he brought this up from the depths of 
his profoundly sentimental heart, — “ for years I’ve wanted 
to see you in love and happy ; I can’t tell you how I 
wanted that. I don’t think it matters very much that 
it’s come a little late ; people are more sensible about 
that than they used to be, I think ; you’re less likely 
to lose your head than you would have been seven 
or eight years ago. I’m very glad, my dear. . . . Still, 
there is this other side of it I speak of. You haven’t thought 
of it, of course, but I do. I see it, once the question of your 
happiness is settled, as a sort of bargain, if you’ll forgive the 
expression. You can’t speak of that, of course — I don’t 
suppose it’s entered your head — but I can. So leave all 
that to me. I’ll arrange all that. . . . Are you announcing 
it at once ? ” 


COTTERDALE 


145 

“ Yes. We shall probably be married in the autumn.” 
“Humph! . . . Well, I don’t see why not. It’s short 
work, but it’s quite natural you should be eager. Well, well, 
I must say this is a surprise. . . . But leave the rest to me, 
Berice. I’ll see about all that.*’ 

“ Better have a lawyer if it’s a question of documents,” 
Berice said, smiling. 

But Everard had read somewhere that a perfectly valid 
instrument can be drawn up on a half-sheet of notepaper, 
and as long as the black-and-whiteness was all right he saw 
no reason to be meticulous about anything else. He merely 
repeated that Berice might safely leave all that to him. . . . 

It was that same evening that she broke her news to Mrs. 
Finch-Ommaney and to Celia. The effect of the announce- 
ment on Mrs. Finch-Ommaney can be expressed only by 
negations and inversions. With an “ Oh, my darling, all, all 
happiness ! ” she leaned back in her chair, put her cheek 
caressingly against the cushion, closed her eyes, and smiled 
as Niobe might have smiled. Berice thought she could read 
her thoughts. She was not blaming — but she refrained from 
blaming on the assumption that ultimately nobody was to 
blame for anything ; she was not regretting — but only be- 
cause regrets mark the visage, and the purple state of grief 
was so much, so very much more becoming than the black ; 
she was not making mental comparisons as to what might 
have been — comparisons that involved her peerless boy were 
hyperbolically out of the question. Doubtless poor Berice 
had done the best she could under the circumstances — and 

we are commanded to love everybody, even Berice 

“ Oh, I wish you every happiness ! ” she murmured. . . . 
But Berice knew that Mrs. Finch-Ommaney now weakly 

hated her, and wanted to have her out of the way 

“ It has been so self-sacrificing of you to devote yourself 
to a poor lonely old woman like this,” she murmured, with 
worlds of meaning in her use of the past tense. “ Of course, 
I oughtn’t to have asked you. I think I could have managed. 
We are not visited with grief beyond our power to bear. 

Yes, I was selfish ” 

Berice made no reply. 


10 


THE EXCEPTION 


146 

“ And now,” Mrs. Finch-Ommaney murmured, “ you’re 
anxious, no doubt, to spend all the time you can with your 
sweetheart ” 

As Mrs. Finch-Ommaney had not seen Emney, she could 
not be suspected of the ironical us£ of a substantive usually 
applied to younger men than he. 

“ So I must absolutely forbid you, darling, to waste any 
more time on me. I don’t know what your arrangements 
are, but if you stay here — which would be sweet of you — 
you are to go out just whenever you wish.” 

“ Thank you,” said Berice, with a slight compression of 
her lips. She imagined that a hint was given that she had 
been out during the greater part of the last three days. . . . 

A little later she walked with Celia in the garden. To 
Celia she said very little ; to say much would have been cruel. 
But Celia’s soft heart had little power of retention ; it was 
enough for it to be full in order to overflow. She wept softly 
on Berice’s shoulder. 

“ Oh, Berice ! ” she sighed presently. “ You — and me ! ” 

“ Hush ! ” Berice whispered, pressing closer to her. 

“I’m not complaining. I love you so. I’m so glad you’re 
happy, but I can’t help thinking of what might have been.” 

“ Hush ! ” 

“And — and — there’s another thing. I told you how 
jealous I was of you at first — I thought mother liked you 
best, you see — but I’m afraid, oh, I’m afraid she doesn't 
now ! ” 

“No,” said Berice, again compressing her lips as she 
remembered Mrs. Finch-Ommaney’s two-edged felicitations. 

“I’m so, so sorry ! . . . But I’m glad too for one thing — 
(oh, how selfish I am !) — but I am glad, Berice — glad that 
even his mother would have been satisfied with me. You 
don’t mind that, do you ? ” 

“You poor child ! ” Berice murmured gently — yet deter- 
mined that that rag and broomstick and candle-end should 
not reassemble themselves again. . . . 

By morning she had decided that the least undesirable of 
several rather undesirable courses open to her would be to 
return to Skirethorns. She announced her intention of 


COTTERDALE 


147 

doing so, and Mrs. Finch-Ommaney’s murmured protesta- 
tions and regrets were entirely devoid of opposition. 

“ Thank you so much, darling, for all you have done for 
me. . . . What time shall I order the carriage ? ” 

She left on the day that followed that. Sir John Hartopp 
had acted as Berice had assumed he would, and Emney had 
availed himself of the proffered hospitality until he should 
leave for London. A rumour reached Berice that Bunny 
also was thinking of packing up again, and one day, as she 
crossed the moor to the painting cottage to despatch a last 
errand Mrs. Finch-Ommaney had entrusted to her, she saw 
him in the distance, fairly in flight before her. Apparently 
he didn’t wish either to congratulate her or to omit doing so. 
She found Neill, however, humming an air over that butchery 
of his artistic conscience, the memorial. He indicated it 
with an impenitent smile. 

“ I shan’t trouble you to talk about it now,” he said, 
twinkling. 

Berice was a little out of tune with Neill also. While 
admitting that he had acted in all innocence, she still resented 
that he should have come near her privacies at all. If it 
was, as it had seemed to be, a question of anybody being in 
the wrong, well . . . Neill ought to have known that people 
are best liked when they mind their own business. . . . She 
put herself in a careless attitude before the work. “ Really,” 
she admitted, “ if you hadn’t told me you’d thrown it up I 
shouldn’t have known the difference. It seems to me just 
like Mr. Finch-Ommaney.” 

“ My trouble is that it’s not like wtf,” Neill laughed. “ Never 
again, I promise you. ...” 

“ When will it be ready ? ” she asked indifferently. 

“ Oh, any time now. Now that I’ve modelled my own 
damnation I haven’t any time to waste in regrets. I’m 
afraid I wasted some of your time too, but . . . but I’m not 
sorry for that. May I wish you all happiness ? . . .” 

His eyes were on her face with searching gentleness, and 
she knew very well what he was thinking of her. Before, 
he had thought her magnificent ; now he found her the more 
magnificent that she had elected, after all, to take up her 


THE EXCEPTION 


148 

life cheerfully and not to make that offering of flesh and 
blood and the precious stuff of living to an ancient idol out 
of which the sanctity had departed. She had found him 
humming an air over his own surrender ; our surrenders are 
robbed of their bitterness when we can hum an air over 
them ; and he seemed to find something of the same bravery 
and cheerfulness in her. For it was on the earth about him, 
and not in the heavens above, that Murragh Neill sought 
and found Life’s magnificence. In his heart was written that 
great word of St. Augustine, that they who go most deeply 
into the human — yea, its imperfections, soilures, disgraces, 
defeats, notwithstanding — find at last the divine ; and 
cheerfully to accept the common lot was magnificence’s 
crown. Formerly he had honoured her lie ; he now did her 
the unspeakable honour of her supposed relinquishment of 
it. . . . 

And she saw it, and, nursing in addition that miserable 
and wilfully assumed grudge against him, found it harder 
than anything she had yet had to bear. She bore it as best 
she could. Perhaps she could not have borne it had she not 
in those days gone constantly attended by another self of 
whose presence she was intermittently conscious. The 
presence of this other self stimulated her as an actor is stimu- 
lated by the silence and attention of the full theatre. He 
stood off, this Familiar, watching her as she breasted her 
life with so proud a prow. Herself was curious about her- 
self. Her own actions had surprises and unexpected turns 
for her. She wondered what she would do next. . . . 

And she amused herself by giving names to this other, 
this watching portion of herself. Sometimes she called it 
her Sense of Humour, that observed the proportions of 
things. Sometimes it was her Pride, that would not suffer 
the flicker of an eyebrow when out of the ambush an arrow 
flew. Sometimes it was her Tact, that counselled her when 
to dodge and evade — her Angel, in the old sense of messenger, 
that warned her when her guard must be up in a twink — 
and sometimes it became something for which she had no 
name, something that gravely and consideringly made notes 
of the way in which she talked, laughed, wrote letters, or- 


COTTERDALE 


149 

dered, planned, arranged, and did her daily business. It 
lifted an inquiring eyebrow, as if it said, “ Excellent — excel- 
lent so far — but ” 

And once, as she thus surveyed herself, she suddenly and 
unaccountably found herself thinking of a twig, that had 
escaped from the tumbled water at the foot of a diminutive 
fall and was journeying steadily down a mountain stream. . . . 

The wave of interest caused by the announcement of her 
engagement reached the “ Cotterdale Arms.” They talked 
of it there. Even the lodger who had taken Ship Brooke’s 
spare room spoke of it. 

“ Ten — thousand — pounds — a year ! ” said Ship Brooke 
in an awed voice. . . . “ How much is that a week, Harry ? ” 

“ They don’t reckon sums like that by t’ week,” Harry 
Dean replied. 

“ It’s two hundred pounds a week,” said the lodger. . . . 

“ Two — hundred — pounds — a week ! Thirty pund a day 
a’most ! . . . It’s like a tale, isn’t it ? ” said Ship, his imagina- 
tion arrested. 

The company agreed that it was like a tale. 


XV 



HENCEFORWARD until her wedding, Berice’s state 


1 of slight but even tension did not relax. At last she 
was on the eve of living her own life, and she could no more 
contemplate that great fact without excitement than, as a 
child, she could have lain down to sleep un thrilled by the 
thought of the picnic of the morrow. True, in anybody 
else’s case she would have smiled at the idea of securing 
liberty by the deliberate assumption of a bond ; but she 
was Berice Beckwith, in whose favour large exceptions to 
general rules were to be made. Rules, so long as she was 
left out of their operation, had her full permission to exist ; 
she even liked them to exist ; if her exceptionalness proved 
them, they in turn proved her exceptionalness ; which was 
all just as it should be. . . . 

She intended to be married quietly. A quiet wedding 
would have the double advantage of being the most pleasing 
to herself and at the same time by far the easiest under the 
circumstances. Skirethorns was without mistress, and there 
was nobody she wished to call in for the occasion. Had 
Harry attached any sentimental importance to the apparatus 
of weddings she would have consented to go veiled and 
blossomed ; but she put the question to him in a form that 
invited an answer in the negative, and he did not refer to 
the subject again. Harry, in brief, did all she wished. . . 

They were to be married on the first Thursday in October, 
and the September days passed quickly. Bunny had gone 
away, she did not know where ; Neill also had finished his 
‘ job ’ and departed ; and the lodger of the “ Cotterdale Arms,” 
presumably an amateur in such things, had been once or 
twice to inspect the memorial that had been affixed to the 


COTTERDALE 15 1 

plastered wall of the little church between the two windows 
nearest the pulpit. The memorial was of bronze, very 
slightly patined by artifice. The frame that enclosed the 
head made little appeal to the eye except by the rightness 
of its proportions and the just spacing of its members, and 
the lettering on the lower part of it was of finished simplicity. 
The medal-like head itself, that of a good-looking young 
man with prominent eyes, high cranium, and a chin that 
would have been double had he lived, was presented at a 
slightly over-erect, over-conscious angle ; and its slight 
suggestion of vacancy and lack of personal face might have 
been attributable to the unsatisfactory conditions under 
which it had been done. . . . 

At Berice’s wedding that slab of bronze played a part of 
its own. From where he stood, Sir John Hartopp, who 
supported Emney, saw a short vista of profiles that a little 
struck him. Bridegroom and bride stood together at the 
rail, looking straight before them towards the altar ; a pace 
in the rear Everard Beckwith, very erect and apparently 
swallowing something from time to time, looked fixedly in the 
same direction ; and beyond him again, indistinctly seen in 
the half-light, resembling a shadow head in the shadowy pros- 
cenium of a raree-show, the bronze profile looked blankly 
and rigidly past. 

And others than Sir John lifted their eyes to the memorial. 
As the small party returned from the signing of the register in 
the vestry, Berice Emney’s hand trembled a little on the 
sleeve on which it lay. Emney, looking up, caught her re- 
turning eyes, and he also glanced at the relief ; then he 
pressed his wife’s hand. In his heart he prayed that glances 
of that kind might soon be relegated to the limbo to which 
they properly belonged. He intended, God giving him 
strength, to supplant that dream. . . . 

In spite of Berice’s desire for privacy, many sightseers 
were waiting to see them come out of the church door. They 
lined the road, as far as the bridge ; and they cheered as 
the car bore them away. At Skirethorns lodge there was 
another cluster ; but the servants, headed by Jane Warry, 
the housekeeper, waited up at the house to present their con- 


THE EXCEPTION 


152 

gratulations and the coffee-service, on each piece of which 
commemoratory initials and a date were engraved. Joe 
Warry made the presentation, and Berice was presently 
aware of Jane, his wife, who hovered on the outskirts of the 
assembly, inconspicuously striving to attract her attention. 
They entered the house. Berice was preparing to go straight 
up to her room, and already had her hand on the newel, 
when again she found Jane at her side. 

“ What is it, Jane ? . . . Excuse me one moment, Sir 
John. . . ” 

Jane whispered something. 

“ Who ? . . said Berice. 

Again Jane whispered. . . . 

Emney was thanking Sir John Hartopp for his recent 
good offices, and Sir John was rubbing his hands, with a 
general air of congratulating everybody on a deed well done. 
Everard, rather quiet, was feeling in his pocket the instru- 
ment in black and white which he had ready for putting into 
Berice’s hand. Jane was still whispering to Berice. . . . 

“ But why me ? And why now of all times ? And why 
doesn’t his name matter ? ” Berice asked in surprise. 

Once more the sibilation of Jane’s whispering was heard. 

“ Harry ! ” Berice began suddenly ; but the next moment 
she had checked herself. “ Never mind — it doesn’t matter,” 
she called. . . . “ Where is he, Jane ? I’ll see him. He 
may have brought a parcel or something. . . . Where do 
you say he is ? ” 

. “ In the housekeeper’s room.” 

“ Very well. Let us have lunch in half an hour.” 

She passed through the baize door that led to the kitchens. 

The housekeeper’s room lay at the end of a long passage, 
the light of which was cool and green by reason of its trans- 
mission through the shrubbery outside. It also had a red- 
baize door. Berice hesitated for a moment at this door ; then 
she pushed at it and entered. The lodger of the “ Cotterdale 
Arms ” rose from Jane Warry’s chair as she did so. The 
round table was covered with a red cloth, on which lay 
Jane’s workbox and spectacles. Berice advanced to the edge 
of the table. 


COTTERDALE 


153 

“ Good morning,” said Berice. “ I know if I seem in a 
hurry you’ll understand — of course, you know what’s taken 
place ? ” 

The man inclined his head, bashfully, Berice thought, but 
seemed to hesitate about stating his business. 

“ Good morning,” he said. . . . 

His prolonged hesitation was a little provoking. She saw 
no nuptial parcel of which he might be the bearer. 

“ Who are you, please, and what do you want ? Please 
answer at once, as I’m pressed for time,” she urged him. 
“Or wouldn’t you rather I sent my husband or my 
uncle ? ” 

He was a small and lightly-built man, dressed in a suit of 
old but well-cut tweeds, and with a bluish smudge on his 
upper lip despite the care with which he had shaved, with 
the little looking-glass propped in the dormer of the “ Cotter- 
dale Arms.” His eyes were large, and resembled two dark 
grapes ; his hands and feet were minute ; and he spoke in 
an educated, but deprecating and conciliatory voice, the 
tone of which fully admitted the oddness of the moment he 
had selected but pleaded the urgency of his business. 

“ Are you Mrs. Emney ? ” he asked. 

“ I am,” Berice replied, beginning to lose patience. “ But 
why do you come to this house and ask for me and not for 
my husband ? And what makes you choose this particular 
time ? ” 

“It is unusual,” he said in profoundly apologetic tones, 
“ but it was not altogether my choice ; and I was compelled 
to ask for you because it was you I specially wanted to see.” 

Berice made a movement towards the door. “ I don’t 
think your business, can be anything my husband may not 
know. If you’ll sit down again I’ll send him to you.” 

Already she was at the door ; but suddenly he put up a 
small white hand. 

“ Please ! . . . That would entirely defeat the purpose 
I’ve come for. Believe me, it would only make it more 
difficult. I should be obliged to talk about something quite 
different, you see — to ask him for something I really don’t want 
— a recommendation to a place, perhaps — and he might not 


THE EXCEPTION 


154 

regard even that as a sufficient explanation why I should 
choose this particular time.” 

“ Oh ? You, do appreciate the oddness of the time you’ve 
chosen, then ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then state your business briefly, and I’ll decide whether 
I send for him or not. And first tell me who I’m talking to.” 

His name was as smooth, undistinguished, and as like 
other names as he was like other men — Walker. Berice 
wondered where she had heard it before. . . . 

“ I’m afraid that doesn’t tell me much,” she said, tapping 
with her finger on the table as if in measurement of the time 
that was passing. 

“ I don’t know whether I may ask you to sit down,” said 
Walker, timidly indicating a chair. 

“ Come, be quick,” said Berice, tapping again. She was 
noticing again those very old but very well-cut clothes. 

“ I’m from India,” said Walker, turning his dark, grape- 
like eyes sorrowfully on her. 

The sickness that came suddenly over her heart was 
horrible. For a moment it was inexplicable also. It was 
but compensatory that Berice Beckwith’s joys should be 
more keenly felt than the joys of other women, since she 
was so defenceless against stabs. Or almost defenceless. 
That bright blade of his words, thrust into the heart of another 
woman, would have met first with outer softness, then with 
a core made sound and hard by principle ; but only an outer 
rind of hardness enclosed whatever Berice’s heart contained. 
That pierced, the rest offered no resistance. She was vulner- 
able to the very centre. . . . 

But that exterior was not pierced yet. Bruised it might 
be, but it turned the thrust. And the sickness also abated a 
little. She had remembered the name. 

“You are from India ? Your name is Walker ? I see. . . . 
You were with Mr. Finch-Ommaney when he died, were you 
not ? ” 

“ I was. I was lately chaplain of the Malverns. I left 
India soon after he died.” 

Berice drew herself up. “ I see. . . . Then I’m afraid 


COTTERDALE 


155 

you’ve been sent to the wrong house. Mr. Finch-Ommaney’s 
home was at Undershaws, in Ridsdale ; this is Skirethorns, 
in Cotterdale. If you’ll wait here a moment I’ll have you 
shown the right way.” 

Again she turned her back on him and moved to the 
door. 

But she stopped at a light sound. He had tapped softly 
on the table with his finger. He was leaning slightly forward. 
Just so he might have leaned forward over a desk or a pulpit, 
to expound, to enforce, to bring something home to the hearts 
of his hearers without more peremptoriness than was neces- 
sary. He seemed capable of putting great charm into his 
voice ; it was now almost thrush-like in its melodiousness. 

“ Please don’t go,” he said flutily. “ Believe me, Mrs. 
Emney, you ought to be glad I’ve come.” 

Her hand, which had gone to the door, was arrested there. 
She knew that she must hear what he had to say. 

“ I can’t give you more than a minute or two,” she said 
in a faint voice. “You must make haste, or ” 

“ Then I’ll be as short as I can,” he said, with an inclina- 
tion of his head. “ But come away from the door, please. 
Don’t stand at the door. There’s nothing to be gained by 
your standing at the door.” 

Berice moved towards the table again. Walker had picked 
up one of Jane Warry’s reels. He was examining it as if it 
was some rare and interesting object. Suddenly he put it 
down again, and their eyes met, his so large and dark and 
velvety, hers of ice blue. 

“ I’m from India,” he said again. 

“ What is it you want ? ” 

He took up the reel again. He seemed overcome with 
humility and confusion. His air was the disconcerted air 
of the man whose good deed, done in secret, is brought 
against his wishes to light. 

“ I was lately chaplain of the Malverns. As you surmise, 
I knew the officer you mentioned. What an admirable 
portrait of him that is in the church, by the way ! ” 

“ Tell me what it is you want,” said Berice in a voice that 
shook. 


THE EXCEPTION 


156 

“ The poise of the head is particularly well caught : poor 
fellow ! . . . But as I was saying, you were quite right in 
your surmise that I knew him. . . . Ah, if you would only 
surmise a little more ! ” 

He sighed, as if it was profoundly regrettable, but still 
almost too much to have hoped for, that Berice’s surmises 
should go any further. 

“ I was hoping,” he continued falteringly, “ I was hoping 
that — when I said I came from India — you would jump at 
the rest ” 

A fire burned brightly in the housekeeper’s room ; it was 
reflected in the brass of the candlesticks on the dresser and 
in the copper bed-warmers on the walls. As that sickness 
once more came like a rising tide over Berice’s heart the 
glowings and twinklings swam and ran into one another 
before her eyes. In their blurred brightness she seemed to 
see a picture — a picture of herself and Emney lying on a 
hillside above a noisy fair field. The blaring of William Tell 
was loud in her ears again ; she seemed again to feel on her 
hand that grasp of his that had left the four bloodless bars ; 
and she was almost conscious of her own voice ringing vehem- 
ently out again : “I have told you — never say I haven't told 
you! . . 

And of course she had told him, all, all. He knew, accepted, 
condoned. Hardly more than an hour had yet passed since, 
in that knowledge, he had married her ; and all henceforward 
was clear — the future was bright — the past dead 

She told herself all this, angrily, passionately. . . . 

But for all that Walker saw her reel, and took a quick 
half-step round the table to catch her. But, as if his half- 
extended arms had some repelling and righting power over 
her, she recovered herself. Her brows were knitted, her lips 
parted, her eyes tightly closed. 

“ He knows — he knows ! ” 

The whisper came harshly ; she did not mean Walker : 
but Walker made little movements of his hands as if to 
soothe her. 

“Yes, yes ; that’s all right ; gently, gently. ... Of course 
I know, but that can be arranged — that’s all right ” 


COTTERDALE 


157 

But she opened her eyes suddenly wide. Did he think she 
meant he knew ? . . . 

“No, no, no, no ! ” she cried. “ I don’t mean you know — 
whatever there is for you to know — there isn’t anything, 
though — but my husband — I mean he knows ! ” 

And yet for the first time a subtle doubt had crept into 
her words, weakening their conviction. Now that she cried 
it aloud she seemed, somehow — how, she knew not — less 
certain. She had told him — but did he know ? Oh, she had 
told him — never thenceforward might he say she had not 
told him — and he must — must, must know ! . . . What an 
insane idea, to suppose that he did not ! This man’s sudden 
visit must have turned her head that she could suppose for 
one moment a thing so monstrous and ridiculous ! Truly, 
she told herself, she must be unbalanced to go on repeating 
that “ He does know, he does know ! ” even to herself ! . . . 

But that subtle doubt had communicated itself to him 
also, and he had instantly fastened on it. It is only by the 
honourable that a lie is honoured ; among the dishonourable 
it has no currency. He, a liar, a broken man, kicked out of 
the Army for no matter what, thought he saw through her. 
They had something in common. She had brought herself 
down to his level. 

“ Oh, forgive me ! ” he apologized almost abjectly. . . . 
“I’m compelled to believe that you think that’s the truth ; 
I’m sure you wouldn’t say it otherwise ” — it was plain 
mockery and hypocrisy that he gave her — “ but — forgive me 
if I happen to use an inconsiderate word ; the time is so 
short — I was going to say, that the probabilities are dis- 
tinctly against it. I don’t mind saying,” he continued, 
“that that was precisely the thing I feared at one time. 
I really did fear that. That was why I took the risk — it was 
rather a serious risk to take, too, for you might have told him 
— but I know now you didn’t — so I took the risk of coming 
at this inopportune moment. A day or two ago would have 
been too early, you see ; you would have told him then, and 
either he would have ... or else . . . but we needn’t go 
into that. The practical point is, that if you’d told him you 
wouldn’t be listening to me now.” 


1 58 THE EXCEPTION 

Berice choked. “I'm not — I will not — I'll fetch 
him ” 

But she did not fetch him. He knew she would not fetch 
him. Twice already she had started for the door and had 
come back at a word ; that did not look like fetching him. 
She was listening, and for the present he was safe. . . . 

But he might as well have said in so many words, “ Come, 
don’t try your games on with me ; I see the sort you are.” . . . 

“ But,” he continued, with downcast eyes, “ we’re really 
wasting words. As I say, all that can be arranged. That’s 
why I said you ought to be glad to see me. If it’s convenient 
to you to arrange it now. ...” 

She felt herself caught in the backwash, not of her original 
act, but of the act she had trusted would efface the original 
act. She had counted on marriage to efface it absolutely, 
and yet it was by that very marriage that she was caught. 
This man, who had crept so noiselessly, so sidlingly into her 
life that the first she had known of him was that he had been 
there, had taken his chance that she had not told, had de- 
liberately waited until telling, if it had not taken place, was 
made impossible (but that was of course ridiculous, she 
caught herself quickly up — she had told), and was now 
before her proposing, apparently, that she should commit 
some third act, she knew not what, for the effacement of the 
other two. As a twig that is caught in the reverse current of 
some stream travels up again to the tumbled water that 
presently will once more swallow it up, so she felt herself 
yet again in the grasp of the thing she had considered past 
and done with. 

And stranger than all was that there was positive relief 
in being so caught. There was at any rate the relief of know- 
ing the worst. She had weathered those muddy waters 
before ; well, she must do so again, that was all. . . . 

Moreover, she was sufficiently mistress of herself again to 
recognize that once more a choice was presented to her. On 
the one hand she had but to raise her voice and this creature 
would indeed be shown the way out of Cotterdale and into 
Ridsdale or any other dale that was not too hot to hold him ; 
on the other — what ? He had not said yet. 


COTTERDALE 


159 

She had momentarily closed her eyes. By the time she 
had opened them again she had determined that the second 
alternative was — well, to be considered. If only to avoid a 
scene, and the causing of her husband the pain which, hide 
it as he might, the thought of his predecessor must almost 
necessarily cause him, it was to be considered. She turned 
to Walker again. 

\ “You spoke of arrangement,” she said shortly. “ I admit 
nothing, you understand, but I must know what you’re 
talking about. Arrangement of what ? ” 

He had shown certain signs of a quite well-bred impatience, 
but his manner now became suddenly shy again. He seemed 
to be revolving inoffensive ways of putting what he had to 
say, and then again he seemed to be thinking that it was time 
to be off. Sooner or later the rather indefensible thing would 
have to be approached, however, and on the whole sooner 
seemed better than later. . . . 

“ Arrangement,” he murmured, with deference, “ of the 
terms on which you may receive a packet of letters.” 

“ Letters,” she repeated, nodding. “ Letters. ‘ The letters * 
— quite melodramatic. . . . Whose letters ? ” 

“ Your own.” 

“ My letters ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

There was a heavy snence. 

By and by she resumed. 

“ My letters. ... I gather, from your sense of the im- 
portance of them to me, that you’ve read them ? ” 

Oh ! . . . His shocked, deprecating gesture suggested 
that she had said something indecent. 

“ You’ve read them ? ” A sudden crimson, not at all 
beautiful, had flooded her face. 

“ To the extent of getting your address, of course,” he 
protested, with a pained look. How had she supposed he 
had got her address, if not from the letters ? . . . 

“ And is the knowledge of the address the basis of the 
arrangement you speak of ? ” she demanded. 

His embarrassment was positively touching. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Emney . . . need we go into that ? Naturally, 


i6o 


THE EXCEPTION 


the most cursory glance told me that — that probably the 
things were better in your hands. . . 

“ In short, you read them ? ” 

“ Believe me ” 

“ Tch !” The sound might have come from some animal 
in a state of nature. 

He began to pace the hearthrug in his distress. He looked 
up sharply for a moment to say, “ I hope we’re safe from 
interruption in here ? ” and then paced it again. Then once 
more he turned his dark, velvety eyes on her. 

“ I wish you’d let me tell you one thing at once,” he said 
not, she thought, without menace. 

“ Oh, a hundred ! ” she said, tossing out a laugh. 

“ It’s this : that it won’t advance matters one inch that 
you’re able to show that I’m doing — well, an unpleasant 
thing. I know it very well. I’m exceedingly sorry I have 
to do it — sorrier, probably, than you. But I’m driven to it. 
I needn’t tell you how — circumstances drive me, and I’ve 
no choice. And if I'm driven to it, so (if you’ll forgive my 
saying so) are you. To put it plainly, we’re both horribly 
intrigued. Who’s the deepest in it I can’t say ; perhaps 
you are, perhaps I am ; and perhaps, on the other hand, we 
are all, best and worst of us alike, what circumstances make 
us. Don’t let us leave ourselves out of the charity it is our 
duty to extend to all alike.” 

Berice almost laughed in his face. He seemed injured, put 
himself on his dignity. 

‘‘I’m sorry you don’t take it a little more — accommodat- 
ingly,” he said. “ Well, perhaps that’s natural. * We needn’t 
discuss it. We’d better pass on to something else.” 

“ Please do.” 

“ I will. I’ll even put it bluntly, as the time is short. 
Here it is : There’s something which you may or may not 
want, but which you ought — you really ought — to possess ” 
— (Read those letters ? Berice thought ; from his tone he 
probably had them by heart !) — “ you ought to have them, 
if it’s only so that nobody else, myself included, may get 
hold of them. And I hope you’ll believe me when I say that 
I should positively luxuriate in the ; dea of being able to 


COTTERDALE 161 

hand them to you and of then immediately taking my de- 
parture.” 

“ But ? ” Berice prompted. “ Isn’t there a ‘ but ’ ? ” . . . 

“ The only ‘but’ about it, Mrs. Emney ” 

“ Please don’t use my name.” 

“ — the only ‘ but ’ about it is that I am most anxious to 
be assured beforehand that my generosity won’t cost me 
anything.” 

Berice was actually interested in his windings and turnings. 
“ Cost you ? What should it cost you ? ” 

“ It might cost me certain deprivations that would amount 
to a positive punishment.” 

“ A punishment ? . . .” She was honestly trying to 
follow him. 

“If it is not the mot juste , please pass it ; I am a little 
agitated. I am in need. I have, believe me, perfectly legiti- 
mate needs. The ideas of punishment and reward go together, 
and I shudder to think what certain deprivations might 
mean ” 

“ What have your needs got to do with me?” she inquired. 

He smiled gently, almost sadly. 

“ Ah ! . . . What, for that matter, have yours to do 
with me ? ” 

“ Ah ! . . ” 

“ Forgive, oh, forgive the apparent brutality ! . . . But 
it is, it is, give and take. I wish to avoid even the remotest 
idea of an exchange — oh, I abhor that ! That is why I say 
that I should rejoice to make you a present but for a fear — 
an unworthy fear, perhaps, but still a faint fear. . . . Will 
you,” he demanded suddenly, “do me a great favour ? It 
is to regard me merely as a beggar — a beggar with needs of 
the most pressing description ? ” 

“ Why ? ” She really did not see why. 

“ In order,” he explained, “ that the two ideas may be 
dissociated — the idea of a bargain, and my most deplorable 
necessity. I’m sure you’ll see that these two things are only 
accidentally related — only accidentally related ” 

His tone was supplicating. Berice began to see where he 
was. 


ii 


THE EXCEPTION 


162 

“ I see. ... You want me to give you something freely 
that you’ll proceed to extort if I don’t. I see. . . .” 

“No, no, no ! ” he murmured, revolted at the expression. 

Berice had gone to the window and was looking out over 
the shrubbery. For one moment, one moment only, a dull 
shock had smitten at her heart. The rag and the broomstick 
and the candle had stirred again — member had sought 
member — the parts had reassembled — the bogy had shown 
for one moment complete ; and the shock had been that 
without it her life had seemed empty, and that there was 
comfort in looking on its grinning, familiar visage again. . . . 
But that lasted barely a second ; her husband did know — 
did know ; and only to spare him pain had she refrained from 
sending for him to deal with this man himself ten minutes 
ago. He did know . . . angrily, past patience with herself, 
she assured herself yet again that he did know, and that it 
was only the disbelief of the man on the hearthrug that 
shook for a moment her own belief in what she knew to be 
true . . . that was the hateful result of being distrusted — 
one distrusted one’s self. . . . 

Yet, though Harry did know, it would be merely pitiless 
that he should be told details — pitiless, indecent. He had 
not wanted to know them — nay, he had wanted not to know 
them. She was burningly red again ; she had remembered 
those letters, had remembered, too, that the man behind her 
had seen them. . . . Who, with a heart in which a single 
humane impulse stirred, could commit the butchery of 
thrusting this unrequired knowledge on a heart happy in 
its ignorance of it ? It was unthinkable. The creature 
behind her was right ; the things were best in her own hands 
— there, and then into the fire. And since he proposed 
terms, she must accept them for her husband’s sake and her 
own. At any rate, she might as well know the sum of his 
demands. Money, of course, she knew that. . . . 

She turned. 

“ How much ? ” she asked, as a man might contemptu- 
ously ask the price of a thing it is hardly likely he will buy. 

He put up his hand again, as if the brutality of her words 
hurt him like a physical blow. 


COTTERDALE 


163 

“ Not that way, not that way ! ” he implored. 

“ Come . . . the time’s getting short. . . 

“ It happens that not less than five hundred -pounds will 
relieve my needs. ...” 

“ Five hundred pounds. ... Be so good as not to speak 
again till I’ve had a little time to consider.” 

She turned to the window again, once more in her life 
confronted with a choice. 

She proceeded to consider it. 

Five hundred pounds. . . . The money would have to 
come from her husband. She would have to go to him and 
tell him, to-day, on his wedding day, that she wanted five 
hundred pounds. She would either have to refuse absolutely 
to tell him why she wanted it, letting him think what he 
would, or else would have to remind him of what she had 
told him that afternoon on the hillside overlooking the fair 
field — yes, she would have to remind him of that in order 
to make doubly sure (thanks to these vile doubts the cringer 
on the hearthrug had contrived somehow to instil into her) 
that he did understand everything. She would have to tell 
him that her need for the money came of that previous affair 
and to trust to him for his own peace of mind not to inquire 
further. . . . 

Yesterday it would have been easier — to-day was, after all, 
a day too late. . . . 

A day too late ? Was it only a day too late ? Was it not 
everlastingly and for ever too late ? Was it not so much too 
late that now she had no choice — that the only course now 
for her to take was to open the door of the housekeeper’s 
room, to call for Harry, and to let him deal with this soft- 
spoken, soft-treading creeper into houses as he thought fit ? . . . 

It was the only thing to do. That, too, would involve the 
laceration of his heart, but it was preferable to the other, 
and, she thought, with a bitter smile, would save five hundred 
pounds. He must bear it as he could. . . . 

And on his wedding day ! . . . 

She took a stride towards the door. 

But she did not reach the door. Half-way to it there 
broke on her brain a blaze of golden light. She had five 


THE EXCEPTION 


164 

hundred pounds ! That laughed-at black and white jacket 
of her uncle’s had given her money ! It had given her power 
to draw, to a given extent per ahnum, on her husband’s 
account — Everard had the things, pass-books, or whatever 
they were, all ready to put into her hand — he had told her 
so the evening before ! How much money this put her in 
possession of, and by what mysterious process of pen and 
paper she could come by it, she did not know ; she had never 
had an account, and hardly knew a cheque-book from the 
marriage lines in her purse ; but she knew that between 
asking Harrison for the money and refusing this soft-voiced 
scoundrel’s offer there was a middle way — the thing her 
heart loved — a compromise 

Hardly knowing what she did, she proceeded to examine 
the compromise. 

Instantly its beauty dazzled her. Hitherto she had run, 
as it were, hither and thither, cropping every shoot of some 
rank and deeply-buried growth as it had appeared above the 
surface ; but here was its hidden root, the destruction of 
which would put an end to that upspringing for ever. She 
had walked among dangers, but there could not possibly, 
not possibly, be anything after this. The axe once laid at 
this root and all was ended. The seasons would pass ; the 
soil of her heart would recover ; where the stinking weed 
had been flowers would grow . . . prophetically she saw 
them. . . . 

But all this was no thanks to the man who awaited her 
reply on the hearthrug. She faced him again, looking him 
up and down as if she sought his most vulnerable point. 

“ Five hundred pounds,” she repeated, but with a tempest 
gathering on her brow. 

Ah, who, to judge from his gesture, deprecated it but he ! 

“ Have you got them with you ? ” 

He had. 

“ Put them on that table.” 

He did so. 

Berice did not know what it was in the small square, 
string-tied packet — it had no outer covering — that should 
have moved her to a mirthless laugh. Perhaps it was pure 


COTTERDALE 


165 

bewilderment, wonder where all that old pathos had gone to. 
For she did not delude herself that that packet had any 
pathos for her now. Once, long ago, she had wondered, 
reading some novel or other, whether it was not a convention 
of the novelists that the long-dead rose-leaves laid between 
the pages of old romance conserved even physically their 
fragrance ; certainly the packet now before her suggested 
nothing but the mustiness of the long-unopened volume. 
Their place was where the other half of the correspondence, 
those other letters of an ardour so curiously kindled from 
those she looked at, had long since been — at the back of the 
fire. She had absolutely no curiosity to untie the string 
and to take a peep into the past. There they were . . . and 
there was the housekeeper’s fire. . . . 

But there remained this merchant in the old and well-cut 
clothes to dispose of before that matter could be settled. 
Horsewhip him she could not, but she could set another kind 
of weal upon him. She turned to him. 

“ Are you still in the Church ? ” she asked lightly. 

For answer she had a quick, darkling look. 

“ The Church and the Army — kicked out of both ? ” 

He repeated the look. 

“ Wouldn’t two hundred pounds meet those needs you 
spoke of ? ” 

He opened his lips. “ It would not.” 

“ Not,” she continued, “ that it makes any difference to 
me. I merely want you to see what I’m doing. I’m making 
you earn your five hundred pounds. I’m making you haggle 
— chaffer — beating you down, you know. You tried to get 
out of that — you wanted to do it delicately ; that was the 
idea, wasn’t it ? Well, as you see, I’m not letting you.” 

His look was dangerous, but the thrush-like voice was as 
controlled as ever. 

“ Need we adopt this tone ? ” he asked. “ You see, you 
have the advantage of me.” 

“ The advantage of your chivalry and your respect for 
women ? . . . Very well. We’ve said all that need be said. 
I accept. If you’ll wait here I’ll fetch you your wages.” 

She was, of course, supposed all this time to be dressing ; 


1 66 THE EXCEPTION 

and it was necessary before she could get the money that 
she should send word to her uncle that she wished him to 
come up to her room. She must risk his surprise at her 
request. She went out, and passed upstairs by the servants’ 
staircase. She reached her room. 

It took her less than a minute to unfasten her dress at 
the throat, loosen her hair, and put a wrap about her shoul- 
ders. Then she rang the bell. 

“ Please ask Mr. Beckwith to be good enough to come up 
for a moment,” she said. 

In three or four minutes Everard came up. “ Come in,” 
she said through a mouthful of hairpins, and he entered. 
She knew that he had what she wanted in his pocket, and 
she wondered whether she would have to ask for it. . . . 

“ I only wanted to ask you — to ask you to ask them to 
excuse me for being so long,” she said, her voice suddenly 
breaking a little. 

Everard thought he knew what she really wanted. For 
many years he had been nearer to her than anybody else, 
and he thought she wanted to see him once more, if only for 
a moment, before passing for ever out of his keeping. His 
eyes grew suddenly moist. Quickly he crossed the room, 
and took her into his arms. Twice, thrice, he kissed her 
forehead ; he held her strained for a moment longer to him ; 
and then, releasing her, he assumed a monstrous briskness. 

“ There. That’s enough of that. God bless you, my dear. 
. . . Now hurry down to lunch ; we’re all famished. . . . 
And oh, by the way, I’ve a little present for you ” 

He put a bundle down on her dressing-table, told her again 
to hurry up, and went out. 

She had torn the bundle open almost tigerishly before the 
door had closed behind him. Her fingers sought by instinct 
and closed quickly on what she wanted — a slim, pale blue 
cheque-book. Hurriedly she arranged her hair again, slipped 
out of her wrap, and, with her dress still unfastened at the 
throat, ran downstairs again by the way she had come up. 

She found Walker where she had left him. 

“ Your triumph has to be quite complete,” she said 
hurriedly. “ I have never written a cheque — I am as 


COTTERDALE 167 

unworthy of your steel as that. Show me where the figures 
go. ...” 

He showed her. She was to make it payable to herself, to 
endorse it, and to leave it uncrossed. It would have to be 
presented in London, but he was pretty sure that, even had 
she known the procedure, she would not stop it by wire. 

“ I shouldn’t trouble about the counterfoil,” he said, 
“ nor yet about that ” 

‘ That ’ was the blotting of the cheque with Jane Warry’s 
blotter. He took it up, looked at it again, and dried it before 
the fire. It was on her lips to say, “ Every man to his trade,” 
but already she had degraded herself sufficiently. He put 
the cheque into his pocket, and handed her the packet of 
which it was the price. 

“ Use the front door if you like, but that’s the back one,” 
she said* pointing to a scullery. 

He walked noiselessly out, and she sat slowly down in 
Jane Warry’s chair. . . . 

Five minutes later she had cut the string of the bundle — 
but this merely that the things should be consumed the 
more quickly. She bent over the fire. One hand held her 
wedding dress from scorching. She dropped the letters into 
the fire in a little flat shower ; then she stood to watch 
them burn. Now and then a word started fitfully forth, 
red for a moment on the half-consumed sheet : then the 
mass became black and choked the fire. She thrust at it 
with the poker, and, seeing the string that had bound the 
packet lying within the fender, she cast that also into the 
fire. All, with the exception of the single letter that Walker, 
with a quick glance towards the baize door of the house- 
keeper’s room, had, untying the string and then tying it 
up again, abstracted from the bundle and placed in his pocket 
during Berice’s absence, was consumed ; and as Berice 
turned away from the fire it occurred to her that twice that 
morning she had signed her name — once in the register in the 
church, and once at the foot of the first cheque she had ever 
drawn. 


END OF BOOK I 


BOOK II 


LONDON 


XVI 

I T seemed to Berice, as she stood, dressed for dinner, 
looking out of the window across the plane trees of the 
Embankment, that Bartholomew was taking things a little 
for granted in keeping her waiting. She was in two minds 
about going on to Lady Haverford’s alone and settling the 
account of Bartholomew’s unpunctuality afterwards. But, 
besides wanting to go to Lady Haverford’s, she rather par- 
ticularly wanted to go there with Bartholomew. She wanted 
to show Harry that he could not grant and then withdraw 
permissions according to the whim of the moment and expect 
more than the barest technical obedience from her. 

Then the clock on the mantelpiece of the large drawing- 
room chimed half-past eight, and she knew it was she who 
was early and not Bartholomew who was late. She smiled 
that she should be early. Positively, anyone would have 
thought she was eager. . . . Nevertheless, the discovery 
that it was earlier than she had supposed was not enough 
to turn her thoughts into a different channel. 

It was not as if he — Harry — had done her the courtesy to 
give her a sufficient reason for his change of attitude in 
regard to Bartholomew. He had, it was true, given her a 
sort of reason, but he had not made the giving of it any the 
more gracious by his remark, that she appeared not so much 
to want reasons as to be allowed to make herself the judge 
whether those reasons were sufficient. She had put it, she 

168 


LONDON 


169 

thought, perfectly plainly to him that day in Paris, as they 
had been returning from Italy — gently, but quite plainly. 
Not in so many words, of course, but nevertheless unmis- 
takably, she had given him to understand that if he tried to 
drive her he must not be surprised if he found her, so to 
speak, a little hard in the mouth. But that was just the 
trouble with Harry. He did not take hints. Things had to 
be put plainly before he saw them. He was slow at the 
uptake ; by the time things had been fairly driven home 
to his mind all the bloom of intercourse had vanished ; and 
he was dreadfully, dreadfully heavy-handed at the return. 
In a word, he was slow company. Bartholomew, whom 
hitherto she had met always with Harry’s consent and under 
his eyes, was at any rate not slow. . . . 

Of course, the state of Harry’s health complicated matters 
too. At first Berice had tried to make the state of his health 
account for this sudden idea he had taken into his head 
about Bartholomew, but she had quickly seen her error. 
His health had nothing to do with it. He was not so ill as 
all that ; it was merely his narrowness and dullness. True, 
he had not managed to shake off that chill, contracted in 
Rome, that for a month had made her at one and the same 
time his bride and his sick nurse ; but he was well enough 
to attend to his business, and, the doctor had repeatedly 
told her, as long as care was exercised there was no danger 
whatever. 

It had been that same morning that, to all appearances 
suddenly, he had adopted this new attitude towards Bartholo- 
mew. And even in adopting it he had made little of it. It 
was, he had said, “ something and nothing,” and, he had 
explained, all he wanted was that she should not “ see too 
much of him.” She had hesitated before replying, in order 
that she might hit the right note between forbearance and 
not too much forbearance. 

“ But I thought you didn’t in the least mind our going 
about together— usually the three of us, of course, but quite 
often lately without you ? ” she had demurred. 

“ That is so,” he had replied, putting a pair of slippers 
into a kit-bag— he had to spend the night away from home. 


THE EXCEPTION 


170 

“ Yes, that is so. All I’m saying is that I’d rather you didn’t 
see too much of him.” 

“ Oh, for that matter,” she had replied, with a little im- 
patient toss, “ * too ’ anything is excessive, and I suppose 
undesirable. Do you mean that you’d rather I didn’t go 
with Mr. Bartholomew to Lady Haverford’s this evening ? ” 

“ No, I don’t mean that. N-o — I don’t mean that.” 

“ Because if that’s the case you needn’t go to the length 
of absolute forbiddance. I can stay at home without 
that.” 

“ No, I don’t mean that at all,” he had repeated, rising 
from the kit-bag. “ And, of course, I know quite well that I 
invited him here in the first place, and that I haven’t in the 
least minded your being seen with him from time to time. 
But — but — well, it’s a matter of degree — of frequency, you 
know.” 

“ Do you mean that you don’t trust Mr. Bartholomew ? ” 
she had asked stiffly. 

“ What nonsense ! ” he had exclaimed. “ Of course I 
trust him ; I shouldn’t have him here if I didn’t. But it all 
depends what you mean by trust. One may trust a man 
with some things, but there are others one prefers to keep in 
one’s own hands. — No, I don’t distrust Bartholomew.” 

“ But something seems to have occurred that’s altered 
your opinion of him.” 

“ Nothing’s occurred, I tell you — nothing at all. But 
you’ll see that as the author of the Aubade he’s one thing, 
and quite another in being too intimate with you.” 

“ Oh, ‘ too ’ ! . . . But it wasn’t merely as the author of 
the Aubade that you first asked him here to dine. There 
seems to have been a sort of friendliness too.” 

“ I’ve asked plenty of men here to dine. . . .” 

“ Yes — and without forbidding me their company at 
other times.” 

He had made a little impatient movement. “I’m not 
forbidding you anything, Berice. I’m only asking you to 
exercise care.” 

Berice had considered this for a moment. Then : 

“ I see. ... It comes to this : that you don’t forbid me, 


LONDON 


m 

but you’d like me to forbid myself. I thought we went over 
all that that afternoon in Paris. . . 

For weeks Harrison Emney had been trying to grasp 
what actually had taken place between them that afternoon 
in Paris, and he had succeeded only indifferently. It had 
been a mystifying little incident that had given rise to their 
wrangle. Her pass-book had been the beginning of it. In 
the new felicity of possessing a private banking account she 
had been ignorant of the periodic necessity for balancing 
that pass-book, and, indeed, through some slight irregularity 
on Everard’s part (even in his un wearable jackets Everard 
always left a stitch out somewhere), she had not been im- 
mediately supplied with that parchment-bound source of 
alarms. It had only reached her, with a mass of accumulated 
correspondence, in Paris, when they were almost home 
again ; and Harry had taken it upon himself to explain the 
book’s uses. She had listened uninterestedly ; she had been 
unconscious of danger ; and, opening the book, he had seen 
the single item on the debit side. The magnitude of the sum 
had pulled him up for a moment, but he had quickly re- 
covered himself and gone on with his explanation. He had 
asked for her cheque and paying-in books that he might 
explain the more clearly. . . . 

H'e had made no comment ; he did not propose ever to 
make any comment ; but by this time she had understood 
that something was happening, and had become uneasy. 
Rather stammeringly she had volunteered a statement. 

“ I drew rather a lot, you see. I didn’t know whether I 
could — whether I could get it while we were away ” 

“ But I thought I explained to you what a circular note 
was ? ” 

“ Oh, these things puzzle me. I think I like Jane Warry’s 
way the best — she puts her money in an old bag at the 
bottom of the flour bin.” 

Self-accused, she had not liked his silence. She had half 
wished he would question her. But he had made no sign 
whatever. 

“ The bank’s safer,” he had merely replied. “ It would 


THE EXCEPTION 


172 

have been better if you’d told me, that’s all. You see, it’s 
a large sum of money to be carrying from hotel to hotel ; 
I don’t like the idea of putting temptation in any poor devil’s 
way, which it might easily be doing. If you haven’t spent 
it all it would be better to pay it in again.” 

Perhaps he had seen that her look positively invited him to 
question her, that he might put himself to that extent in 
the wrong ; but still never a word had passed his tongue. 
She had grown more uneasy still. She knew that he knew 
that all disbursements during their journey had been made 
by him, and that even her own immediate expenses had come 
directly out of his pocket ; he must be wondering, wonder- 
ing . . . she fancied he was even rather overdoing his 
appearance of not wondering. . . . 

“ Suppose,” she had broken out presently, unable to keep 
silence, “ suppose I haven’t got it to pay in ? I may have 
spent it.” 

“ You probably have. In that case you can’t pay it in.” 

“You must think I’ve been very extravagant.” 

“ My dear,” he had replied, “ I wasn’t thinking anything. 
I don’t want to know. Your allowance is your own, and all 
I’m doing is to put you into the way of these things so that 
you may know for the future.” 

“ Oh ! ” she replied. . . . “ I fancied I detected a re- 
proach.” 

“You were quite mistaken, dearest.” 

“ Oh, well, so much the better,” she had remarked. . . . 

Her tone had surprised him a little. “ Why do you say 
that, Berice ? ” he had inquired. 

She had made no reply. 

“ Why do you say so much the better, darling ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing,” she had replied. . . . “ It doesn’t matter,” 
she had added. . . . 

But she had been right in her surmise, that he had been 
wondering about that unexplained sum of five hundred 
pounds. Deny it as he would, she guessed him to be wonder- 
ing now — and the unexpected decision with which he next 
spoke went far to confirm her. 

“ Excuse me, dear, but there is something, and it does 


LONDON 


173 

rather matter. You say that something is * so much the better/ 
and it’s part of something — a tone you’ve adopted towards 
me for a week or two past. Have I offended you in any way ? ” 

“Not the least in the world,” she had replied off-handedly 
. . . and, since she would give none, he had cast about for 
possible causes of offence himself. 

“ I know, dear, you wanted to break our journey so that 
we could go to Roussillon for a few days, but I tried to 
explain that I had to come back on short notice on very 
important business.” 

That also, she had replied, was of no consequence. . . . 
She had only had a fancy to go to Roussillon because of some- 
thing Mr. Bartholomew had written about the place. . . . 

“ Then what is it, my darling ? Do tell me, and if I’ve 
been wrong I’ll try to make amends. ...” 

She had not been able to tell him to his face that she 
sometimes found him dreadfully heavy company, nor had 
she been able quite to leave it alone. She had complained, 
insinuated, guarded herself. . . . The scene that had fol- 
lowed had been unedifying. It had been that scene she had 
had in her mind when she had spoken of ‘ going over all 
that in Paris.’ 

He had continued the packing of his bag, and she had 
tapped fretfully with her foot. 

“ What I can’t make out,” she had said presently, “ is 
why you’ve so suddenly taken a new point of view about a 
man who a little while ago was your friend. You have 
taken a new point of view.” 

“ Well . . . say I have,” he had admitted, busy with 
combs and brushes. 

“ So that all that we said in Paris— you know what I 
mean — about the understanding we married on — you’ve 
changed your mind about all that ? ” 

He had answered with marked slowness. 

“ I never looked on that understanding — which I’m 
beginning to get a little tired of, by the way — as a kind of 
law of the Medes and Persians for either of us. We shan’t 
advance matters much by tugging different ways, Berice. 


THE EXCEPTION 


174 

If our * bargain * is the rigid thing you seem to think it, 
it’s a little ridiculous. When you offer a suggestion, I don’t 
immediately conclude it’s an attempt to overreach me.” 

“ * Overreach ’ ? ” 

“ Well, perhaps it’s not a lucky word. What I mean is, 
that I’m merely acting as I think will be the best for both 
of us.” 

“ But to-morrow you may have changed your mind again.” 

“ That,” he had said slowly, “ is quite possible.” 

“ And I shall have to accommodate myself again. ... I 
wish you’d tell me what has so suddenly become the matter 
with Mr. Bartholomew.” 

Silences such as had begun to take place between Harrison 
Emney and his wife are not productive of good. If hard 
words are spared, hard thoughts are not, and probably the 
words are only delayed. Without good will, silences become 
cantankerous, intentions are misinterpreted, harsh occasions 
arise of themselves. Emney had no quarrel with Bartholo- 
mew ; there was nothing in his wife’s attitude to which 
exception could be taken ; and yet he was uneasy in his 
mind. Until then they had been happy ; his hopes, that he 
could make her as happy as himself, had seemed on the 
point of being fulfilled ; but now, as two chemicals, innocuous 
when separately taken, may yet react on one another to the 
engendering of a harmful product, so vague fears stirred 
within him of the possible result of this acquaintanceship 
for which he himself had been responsible. 

And he was taking serious risks in putting these fears into 
words. He was giving them recognition — possibly existence. 
And he was alive to this risk. Already he had once caught 
himself thinking of that which might come of his wife’s 
intimacy with Bartholomew as ‘It,’ and he could take no 
steps to lay this spectre without by the same steps invoking 
it. He knew not what to do. He only knew that prevention 
was better than cure, that even a momentary harshness and 
unreasonableness that might afterwards be found to have 
been justifiable was better than the graver risk, and that at 
the same time he must proceed gently and without heat. . . 

“ Suppose, darling,” he had continued presently, “ suppose 


LONDON 


175 

we put it in this way. I’m making no suggestion whatever 
against Bartholomew, you understand; I’m not aware 
that there’s any to be made. He’s the author of several 
very charming books, and a very different sort of man from 
— well, from Keigwyn, for instance, whom I have not had 
here. But don’t you see his coming here to dinner occa- 
sionally is one thing, and his being seen about with you 
very much is quite another? Of course, I may be quite 
wrong, but even then I should think my feeling in the matter 
was something worth considering.” 

“ But,” Berice had objected fretfully, “ but . . . well, it 
will certainly seem odd to Lady Haverford. You give your 
permission, and then for no reason at all you withdraw it 
again. I should have thought that was just the way to 
draw attention to — to whatever the dreadful thing is you 
have in your mind.” 

“ I haven’t withdrawn my permission. On the contrary, 
I should very much like you to go to-night.” 

“ Lady Haverford will be obliged to you, that you think 
the people who go to her house fit to meet. . . . Well, if 
you want me to go, what’s this discussion all about ? ” 

“No more about to-night than about any other night. 
Nor,” he had added, “ any less.” 

“ I see. . . . You’d really be best pleased if I never saw 
Mr. Bartholomew again.” 

He had protested. 

“ There’s no need for that. There is a medium.” 

Thereupon Berice had given an aggressively patient sigh. 

“ If only I knew what you do mean ! ” 

“ Dear,” he had reproached her gently, “ don’t pretend 
that you see no difference between being his charming hostess 
in case I should ask him again, as I probably shall, and — 
well, and not letting it go much further than that.” 

She had given a dry laugh. 

“ Oh, I promise you that if I’d suspected all this I should 
have let it stop at the beginning ! I only knew that I liked 
Mr. Bartholomew well enough, and thought that you did. 
But perhaps you’ll have changed again by to-morrow. . . 

It had been more than half-way to an open flouting of 


1 76 THE EXCEPTION 

him, and not without its effect on him ; but still he had 
borne with her. 

“ There are only two ways, Berice — intimacy, and not 
intimacy. There won’t be a third to-morrow.” 

“ Well, that’s something. . . . Forgive me if I seem 
irritated ; it’s difficult to do what you’d like without know- 
ing quite what it is, that’s all. — The only question now is 
whether I’m to go with Mr. Bartholomew to Lady Haver- 
ford’s to-night.” 

“ I have said that I should like you to go.” 

“ Then what have we been talking about ? . . .” 

But thereupon, in the very moment when she had thought 
they had come to an understanding, he had startled her by 
very markedly raising his voice. 

“ We’ve been talking about this, Berice — that I don’t 
intend that either you or myself shall be talked about. Now 
that your name’s the same as mine I’ll have it respected. 
Further, I’ve tried not to bring it to this, but I want you to 
see that it’s a matter of my wishes, not because they’re 
right or wrong, but merely because they are my wishes. 
I’m a busy man, and I can’t foresee every little occasion 
that’s likely to arise, and so I must leave it to you to act 
as you think I’d wish. I put that responsibility on you. — 
One more thing. I don’t want to raise this subject again, 
and so I offer you your choice now : you can either take, 
what I’m saying as a suggestion, a preference of mine, not 
formed without studying your own wishes too, or . . .” 

He had left the rest unspoken, or spoken only by his 
extraordinarily long look. Spoken more gently, and spoken 
earlier, it was probably the only way with her, and she saw 
that, though tardily, he had found it. He did not intend 
to be trifled with. 

And with the discovery an instant change had taken 
place in her. Up to then she had taken him off-handedly, 
hardly seriously ; it was less certain that she could do so 
now. . . . 

The clock on the drawing-room mantelpiece chimed a 
quarter to nine of the May evening, and with its chiming 


LONDON 


1 77 

the stopping of a hansom outside was heard. A bell rang 
below, and in a couple of minutes Mr. Bartholomew was 
announced. She had stepped from the window, not to 
appear to have been looking for him ; she advanced to 
meet him. 

“I’ve just been giving you a most tremendous wigging 
in my thoughts,” she said. “ I thought you were late.” 

“ No, I think I’m to time,” he replied, and added, " So 
your thoughts owe me an especial kindness, to make up.” 


12 


XVII 


B ERICE had her own explanation of her husband’s 
attitude to the author of the Gestes Paresseuses. It 
was, simply, that in many respects the comparison was not 
to Harry’s advantage. By the side of the poet he had be- 
friended he was revealed as being, in many things, merely 
obtuse. There was no doubt that, setting aside such natural 
solicitude for her happiness as might be comprehended in 
his interpretation of the phrase ‘ a good husband,’ he was 
now in the main content to possess her, and to possess 
her in a way not very different from the way in which he 
possessed his china and his bibelots. She was an extension 
of “ the cleverest thing he had ever done,” and he wrote off 
the cost of her as the price to be paid for the ownership of 
one more thing that justified its existence by preventing 
business from wholly absorbing him. He would have noticed 
it had she not dressed well, had she failed to do the honours 
of his table with grace and self-possession ; but he took 
that for granted, as he took it for granted that his porcelains 
were kept free from dust and that his other rarities were 
advantageously displayed in their satin nests or on their 
cushions of velvet. 

A very little would have saved her from the peril she ran. 
A remark now and then on even so small a matter as her 
attire, an occasional graceful superfluity on the manner 
in which she dressed her hair, would have made a very great 
deal of difference. But his simple, rather stupid love once 
granted, he owned without the fine manner of proprietor- 
ship, and already Berice knew the things it was useless to 
expect from him — tact, sympathy, resilience. If her nature 
needed these things she must look elsewhere for them. She 

178 


LONDON 


179 

had found them in the man who sat side by side with her in 
the hansom. 

For she was conscious — Bartholomew contrived it that 
she should be conscious — that the time she had spent at her 
dressing-table was not lost on him. The dark reflective 
eyes behind his gold-rimmed spectacles — Bartholomew never 
wore the pince-nez — rested on her gloves, her fan, her wrap, 
her shoe, critically, discriminatingly, occasionally suggest- 
ing, by a slight alteration of expression more frequently 
entirely approving ; and it seemed to Berice that if it was worth 
a poet’s while to pay heed to these externals it might very 
well not have been beneath the dignity of a banker. Any 
other consideration — as, for example, that there might be a 
point d’appni in not being a husband — had not for an instant 
occurred to her, nor had even Harry’s anxious fears put it 
into her head. 

The first time Harry had asked him to dinner she had 
thought how very unlike the popular conception of a poet 
he was to look at. He was small, blue-black, thrice-shaven, 
and the more given to silences the greater the number of the 
company he happened to be in. His tie and the ribbons of 
his faultless shoes seemed this evening to have been more 
on his mind than poetry. He wore a shirt of soft, pleated 
silk and did not incur the suspicion of effeminacy ; the 
massaging of his face, had she known it, had taken an hour ; 
and on the little finger of his right hand was a small ring 
with a seal-cipher of his own devising. Berice had at first 
guessed his age at forty ; later she had learned that he was 
forty-seven. 

He had retained the hansom he had come in rather than 
avail himself of Emney’s car. “ It isn’t the car I want,” 
he had said, deliberately seeking a safety in the boldness of 
the compliment. She had not replied. As the hansom sped 
noiselessly towards the Suspension Bridge she was thinking 
again of the objections Harry had been unable either to 
justify or to let alone. 

For all her reading of them, she knew little of Bartholo- 
mew’s poems. Half the happy-minded girls of the land 
whose fingers caressed Bartholomew’s three volumes— he had 


i8o 


THE EXCEPTION 


lately added the Centamours — knew no more than she. 
Their eyes, perhaps, were moist over the lines in which 
Bartholomew spoke of Love and Honour and Fame ; but 
the key that would have made plain what private interpreta- 
tion Bartholomew himself put upon these words was, so to 
speak, in a cipher of his own devising on the little finger of 
his right hand. Once, indeed, by an enraged husband, had 
Bartholomew been told to his face that his songs were the 
few bright weeds that floated on the surface of a black and 
quivering sump ; and the two or three men who had heard 
Bartholomew’s reply still remembered it. 

“ I’m a poet, not a spiritual adviser,” he had said in a 
voice that had twanged like a taut wire. “ I’ve got my Law, 
and I can’t help it if it’s nobody else’s. I don’t regret one 
single act I’ve ever committed, and, as I don’t judge any- 
body else, I don’t submit myself to anybody’s judgment. 
My Art’s mine too. I don’t submit that either, sir, to school- 
girls or weak-minded women. If they think it’s harmful, 
let them keep out of its way. Ill answer for it to no man. 
But you, sir, in case you feel yourself aggrieved ...” 

The critic had had acumen, but not Bartholomew’s skill 
as a pigeon-shot ; the incident had never gone beyond 
private knowledge ; and since, when the words Honour and 
Love appear frequently on a page, the public will give to the 
words their accepted meaning without further inquiry, 
Bartholomew’s portrait stood on mantelpieces and on the 
dressing-tables of boudoirs. 

Berice still remained silent and meditative as the hansom 
turned up Oakley Street. Her husband’s concluding words 
that morning, that all day had lain in the background of 
her thoughts, more and more forced themselves forward. 
‘It is a matter of my wishes because they are my wishes ’ 
... it was the first time he had adopted that tone. ‘ You 
can either take what I’m saying as a suggestion, or . . .’ 
it had been all but a menace. Yes, this was new — start- 
lingly new. ... | ^ § 

And she could not help feeling that if it was a menace Jt 
was unwise of him. That, she could have told him, was not 
the way to hold her. She had done nothing to earn that 


LONDON 


1 8 1 


markedly raised tone of voice ; she was innocent of the least 
unfaithful thought to him ; but she knew that it would 
become less easy to remain so, and she herself might lose 
the desire to remain so, if he dropped into the habit of chal- 
lenging her thus. She hoped, for his sake as well as for her 
own, that he would not drop into that habit. It was not as 
if she could not be trusted to make only harmless friend- 
ships. , . . 

The worst of it was that, despite her repeated self-assur- 
ances, she sometimes found herself struggling with a ridicu- 
lous, compunctious feeling that she was — she knew not how 
to put it — that she was somehow in his debt. She suppressed 
this feeling, yet it rose again, and ever again. It lurked in 
the slightest occasions ; it seized her at the least opportune 
moments ; she never knew when an arrow was not pointed 
at her and the string drawn back ; and here it was again, 
menacing, demanding unremitting vigilance, holding her 
silent in the presence of a charming companion. 

And about this companion himself she was now, it appeared, 
called upon to make up her mind. 

For she feared, she knew she feared, the tone in which 
Harry had spoken. If she knew anything at all of Harry, 
he wouldn’t use it twice. He would warn her, once ; after 
that the responsibility would be hers. . . . Nor would the 
means she had several times used against him — the timely 
headache, the serviceable crise — avail her much. His career 
proclaimed his tenacity and hardness ; a gentler man would 
have found it difficult to rise as he had risen ; no : she was 
married to a narrow, strictly upright, possibly kind, un- 
comprehending, scrupulous, inflexible man, to whom she so 
nonsensically fancied she owed something. . . . 

Well, she thought resentfully, by doing as he wished in 
regard to the man at her side she would be ceding nothing 
that she would not take good care she got back again in 
other ways. And, by doing as he wished, she would be 
putting the responsibility of the next step on him. He had 
better consider that. She would yield, but in a mutinous 
spirit. Moreover, there should be no hole-and-corner work 
about the business. She wouldn’t be guilty of the meanness 


182 


THE EXCEPTION 


— yes, the meanness — of letting Bartholomew think he was 
her friend until he should find out . for himself that he was 
not. Harry, apparently, could not make up his mind either 
to a friendship or to a definite breach ; well, she would make 
it up for him. Bartholomew should have at least that justice 
done him. . . . But this, Harry should understand, was not 
the end of it. . . . 

It was with a feeling that she was giving her husband 
rope enough that she cast about for a means of approaching 
the subject. 

She quickly found one. As the hansom pulled sharply up to 
avoid an omnibus at the crossing of the King’s Road she spoke. 

“ Are you coming to dine with us to-morrow ? ” she asked. 

He had not been looking at her. He did so now only for a 
moment, and then turned away again. 

“ Am I to take this as an invitation ? ” he said. 

“ Why, hasn’t ” she began, and suddenly stopped. 

Already she had made a mistake. The opening was develop- 
ing otherwise than as she had intended. 

“ No,” he said, smiling a little. . . . 

“ Oh ! ” she said softly. . . . 

The hansom had crossed the road before he said quietly, 
still not looking at her, “ Oh what ? . . . But no ; perhaps 
I’d better not ask you. . . 

A little mortified, she did not reply. 

But presently he gave a slight laugh. It was as if, after 
a good deal of guessing, he had arrived at some fully ex- 
pected certitude. And he knew that if he gave that particu- 
lar laugh of his at that moment she would say, “ Why do 
you laugh ? ” . . . 

Again she turned to him. 

“ Why do you laugh ? ” she said. 

“ Oh, it’s nothing,” he replied. 

“ It was something. . . 

He hoisted his shoulders slightly. Just as she liked — it 
was something, then. 

“ Tell me why you laughed.” 

At that he spoke almost contemptuously. “You know 
why,” he quietly flung back. 


LONDON 


183 


“ I really don’t.” 

“ You don’t ? ” he said incredulously. . . . “ Well, I 
laughed because it’s just what I’ve been expecting. . . . 
But are you serious? You really don't know? H’m ! . . . 
Well, if it’s got to be put into words I’ll explain. You ask 
whether I’m coming to dinner to-morrow ; you’d hardly 
invite me to dinner yourself (that’s a matter of convention, 
by the way — I don’t say my convention) ; this happens to 
be the first word I’ve heard of it ; and so I conclude that 
the matter’s been mentioned and probably thought better 
of. Perhaps your husband won’t be back by then,” he added, 
as if, did she lack a decent reason, he would make her a 
present of that one. 

Berice replied guardedly. That, no doubt, was the reason, 
she said — Harry might not be back 

“ And if he is he might be tired,” he further helped her. 

“ He’s not very well,” she said in a detached tone. 

“No. . . . Well, it comes to the same thing, however, 
as it happens, for I’ve an engagement for to-morrow night,” 
he remarked. 

She agreed with him that in that case it was just as well, 
and there was a silence. 

Either knew that the other was keeping something back, 
and presently Bartholomew laughed softly to himself again. 
There was power in his laugh to work on her ; he knew it ; 
and again she challenged him. 

“ Something really does seem to amuse you,” she said. 

“ It does,” he replied. 

Then, for the first time, he turned his eyes full on her. 
“ Come,” the scornful, disillusioned eyes seemed to say, 
“ don’t pretend it doesn’t amuse you too ! ” 

“ May I know the joke ? ” she asked, a little piqued. 

“ I’m afraid not,” he replied. “ Not that I should in the 
least mind telling you — and I’d tell you the truth too — 
but — h’m ! ” 

As if it was not worth while to say it, he suddenly stopped. 
Her eyes, too, had suddenly dropped. Both understood per- 
fectly what neither would say. 

For there was no slowness at the uptake here ; Bartholo- 


THE EXCEPTION 


184 

mew, indeed, was instant at it. A glance always sufficed to 
tell him what Harry would only have fastened on at the end 
of a laborious explanation. Quick comprehension was a 
need of her nature ; here was one who comprehended her 
like a flash ; and it angered her that henceforth that beauti- 
ful freedom was to be foregone — foregone for the sake of an 
unreasonable husband and an absurd and impossible scruple. 
She saw, too, the way in which Bartholomew took the thing 
that had been no less plain to both that both had avoided 
it. Had he been regretful, sorrowful, forlorn . . . but he 
was not. He was almost contemptuous in his acquiescence. 
If she wanted to revive the stale comedy of the submissive 
wife, well and good: she must not object, however, to his 
having his own opinion about it. “I didn’t really think 
you’d have the courage,” his eyes said as plainly as if he 
had spoken the words. . . . 

He did permit himself to say something of the kind in 
words too. 

“ Of course, from your point of view you’re perfectly 
right,” he said off-handedly. “If you raised hopes in me 
. . . but it’s impossible for us to talk about it — impossible 
for you, that is to say ” 

She was hot under the disappointed and resigned smile 
with which he dismissed the subject — hot with the sense, 
too, of her husband’s injustice. Oh, yes, she promised 
herself, in one way or another Harry should pay for this ! . . . 

“ And if I were to talk about it, you’d be perfectly right, 
of course, not to listen,” he observed, with another light 
and philosophic shrug. 

Suddenly Berice gave way to her temper. She turned 
crossly to look out of the window. 

“ Oh, it’s unfair ! ” she broke out. " It’s narrow— it’s un- 
just ! I don’t think I’m unreasonable — it isn’t as if I was 
asking for anything outrageous — surely I’m not ! I only 
want . . . But I suppose I’ve got to do certain things. 
Well, I’ll do them ; but I’ll be mistress of my own 
thoughts ! ” 

“ So ? ” said the Jew with amusement. . . . “ Oh, I 
wouldn’t ! . . .” 


LONDON 1 85 

“ You wouldn’t what ? Please don’t be aggravating, 
Mr. Bartholomew ! ” 

“ I ? Not I ! I’m calm enough. If I might presume to 
advise you, it would be that you should be the same.” 

“ You do guess what it is, of course ? . . She could not 
restrain the compromising question. 

“ I think so — quite nearly enough, anyway.” 

Again she was hot and fuming. She was less inclined 
than ever to leave the matter in this unsatisfactory state. 
Perhaps she exaggerated that mental sympathy and intui- 
tive jumping together that seemed to exist between Bartholo- 
mew and herself ; perhaps he was merely the nearest com- 
panion to hand who was not positively stupid ; however 
that might be, it did not exonerate Harry. He was making, 
she repeated again, a grave mistake. . . . Petulantly she 
turned to Bartholomew. 

“ Oh, if only you’d complain — be angry — anything ! ” she 
cried. 

Nothing was further from his intentions. He gave another 
shrug. 

“ Why ? What’s the good ? There’s nothing to be said,” 
he replied with stoical indifference. “ As I say, whatever 
I might do, you can’t discuss the matter. You might have 
seen it all at the beginning. I did the very first time I saw 
you ; I knew what it would be. . . . You’ve given yourself 
over — body, soul, thoughts, will, everything. When some 
men say ‘ mine,’ they . . . well, they put a construction 
on the word that I shouldn’t put on it. Well, well, it’s the 
way we’re made, I suppose. ... You must excuse my 
amusement ; I really thought all that sort of thing was out 
of date.” 

“ What sort of thing ? ” Berice asked shortly. 

“ Well, I was thinking — a little by and large, if you like — 
of a conception of marriage. Proprietorship in bodies and 
souls ; that’s what it seems to me to come to. I really 
thought we’d got past all that ; I’d forgotten women hadn’t 
souls to save. H’m ! Interesting. . . .” He seemed to peer 
at it as if it was some rare historic survival. “ Of course,” 
he continued, “ you’ve lived in Yorkshire all your life. I 


THE EXCEPTION 


1 86 

suppose that’s quite enough to account for the— phenomenon 
— your views, I mean, if I understand them. H’m ! . . . 
Well, it doesn’t matter. I acquiesce.” 

“ But — but ” she began. 

He appeared not to hear. “ Awfully interesting,” he 
continued. “ It reminds one of the days of witchcraft. I’d 
really no idea. . . . Two people, each with a precious life 
to be made the most of, go on boring one another, crossing 
and thwarting and stultifying one another, and stick to a 
long, ghastly mistake — I’m speaking generally — just because 
they happened once to make a small one ! It’s really quite 
fascinating. . . .” 

The fascination of it seemed to send him off into a long 
rumination. 

It was the thinnest of veils he drew over what he was doing, 
and he appeared only to employ it at all as a half-contemptu- 
ous concession to her obsolete prejudices. This sort of thing 
was a game to him, played without ruth — for stakes which 
she would provide. Had she known it, Berice’s place was 
under the noiseless wheels of the hansom rather than on the 
seat by his side as he sat there without moving a muscle. 
He had no passion — all that was left to him was the desire to 
experience passion ; no hunger — the famishing for night- 
ingales’ tongues is not hunger. He sought nothing more 
than sensation as sensation. He was saigne a blanc. Re- 
pletion and insatiability went in him together. In that 
cipher-code of his the words ‘ friendship ’ and ‘ gratitude ’ 
and ‘ trust ’ were capable of the interpretation he now put 
upon them. 

And she, in allowing herself to be drawn into listening to 
him, was merely loosening her hold on the accepted thing 
without possessing the key to his private system of interpreta- 
tions. She had no desire to philander ; she wanted only this 
man’s friendship — without knowing what that included ; and 
an obstacle was put in her way. She caught sight of her own 
face in the little mirror at the side of the hansom : it wore 
the look of a woman sweetly reasonable, stupidly misunder- 
stood. . . . 

She continued to look morosely out of the window. 


LONDON 

Suddenly she turned to Bartholomew and put a question. 
It was to be informed what, since he considered her own 
thinking inadequate, he himself thought on some point. 
Again the smile curved his mouth as he replied that all the 
world might know what he thought, since he had put his 
thoughts into books — 

“ — which evidently you haven’t done me the honour to 
read,” he added. 

“ I have/’ she replied, “ but I don’t know anything about 
them except that I think they’re beautiful ” 

The little unconscious gesture of his hands betrayed his 
origin as he replied. 

“ Well ? Isn’t that enough ? What else is there to be 
known ? ” he asked. “ I really intended nothing else. If 
Love is beautiful, what more can it be ? What more can 
Life be than beautiful ? I take my beauty where I find it. 
But I don’t stick at the word if you prefer another. Call it 
‘ interesting ’ if you like. Whatever you call it it’s only one 
thing — Life, Life, Life ! ” 

At his last words the Cromwell Road, into which they had 
turned, seemed suddenly to fade before Berice’s eyes. In 
its place she saw a hot, bent-grown hillside, a fair in progress 
below, with rising and falling swing-boats and people moving 
slowly about yet ever keeping in one place, like the clusters 
of midges on a summer’s evening. A band was playing 
William Tell, and the brazen music was calling to her in 
those same words : Life, Life, Life ! . . . 

Her marriage was to have brought her that Life ; a pretty 
Life it seemed likely to bring her, she meditated bitterly. 
Harry could neither give her Life himself, nor would he 
allow another to do so. By what, what right that was not 
artificial did he forbid her ? Was her soul not her own that 
he should forbid her ? . . . She forgot that strictly speak- 
ing he had not forbidden her ; her heart cried aloud that 
she would not be forbidden. She did not intend to take 
back anything she had given — nothing that was his should 
be given to anybody else — but so many things in herself 
were not his, were beyond his reach, locked in a closet to 
which he neither had the key nor seemed to want the key. 


1 88 


THE EXCEPTION 


He was merely the dog in the manger. Bartholomew was 
right ; women had souls of their own, she cried to herself, 
and were answerable for them. It would not be to answer 
for her soul to say, on some dread Day, that she had given 
it into somebody else’s keeping. She remembered the parable 
of the talents. . . . Yes, there was the parable of the talents ; 
that was a good point. Harry should have the parable of 
the talents quoted to him — for certainly, certainly, she 
intended to have all this up again. . . . 

And more than all else she envied this man at her side 
something of which he had once boasted to her — his im- 
munity from regrets for anything he had ever done. She 
wished . . . not, of course, on any special account . . . oh, 
no . . . but still she wished that she could say that. It 
must be a comfortable thing to be able to say, that was all. 
. . . She did not know that she was sound and wholesome 
only in proportion as she had not that immunity, nor that 
with it she would have been as corrupt as he. . . . 

She resumed her frowning stare out of the window. 

But they were getting near their destination, and for the 
present only one thing was to be done. She would have it up 
again with Harry, but in the meantime she had a wholesome 
fear of that which she had seen in his face when he had so 
unexpectedly raised his voice to her. She turned to Bartholo- 
mew with a sigh. 

“ Pm sorry,” she said. 

He seemed to take it calmly. 

“Perhaps you’re prudent. That — prudence — isn’t a 
thing I should allow to dictate my actions altogether, but 
it’s your own affair — or rather it isn't exactly your own 
affair. Of course, it will make a good deal of difference to 
me ; I shall be losing something I’ve come to think — well, 
a good deal of ; but you needn’t consider that. If it comes 
to the worst I’ll just take myself off somewhere. That’ll 
leave you entirely — h’m ! — I was going to say ‘ free.’ ...” 

Again, to all outward appearances motionless, he sat 
strongly willing her to him. 

She found it touching. She thought she saw through the 
restraint of his demeanour. He was not letting her see the 


LONDON 


189 

depth of his wound. It was fine of him. She knew that he 
never used the word ‘ friendship * without paying homage 
to it ; as for private interpretations, she did not even know 
he had any ; and their friendship, it appeared, had pro- 
gressed so far that, for him, a breach of it meant ‘ taking 
himself off somewhere.’ . . . 

“Yes, that will be the best,” he repeated, as if to himself, 
“ the best for both of us. . . 

“ I shall speak to him again,” she said in a low voice. 

“ Ah, don’t do that. I don’t know what he’s been saying 
about me, but ” — this time he gave the veil a little twitch 
aside — “ I don’t want to say anything about him ” 

“ But I must,” she interposed quickly. “ I can’t be owned 
and possessed like this ” 

He was about to reply, but at that moment the hansom 
stopped at the end of a string of vehicles that, with stoppings 
and startings forward again, approached a striped awning 
that had been built out over the pavement. They ceased to 
talk. Not until a tall man, helping a lady to alight from 
the cab immediately ahead, turned and raised his hat to 
Berice, did Bartholomew speak again. The tall man was 
Murragh Neill. 

“ Who’s that ? ” 

She told him. 

“Ah, yes, the sculptor. . . . Somebody was talking to me 
about him the other day ; who was it, now ? . . . Keigwyn, 
perhaps ; probably Keigwyn ; he’d met some man or other 
. . . but here we are.” 

He assisted Berice from the hansom, and they followed 
Neill and his companion up the carpeted steps. 


XVIII 


? the head of the stairs Lady Haverford greeted her 



guests with a little ceaseless rill of prattle. She took 
Berice’s hand. 

. . I quite understand, my dear ; these busy men ! 
And we mayn’t even hope to see him later, when the theatre 
party comes ? No ? I’m so sorry ! — Charming Mrs. Emney 
looks, Mr. Bartholomew ! . . . Ah, here’s Murragh Neill 
and his fiancee — sweet of you to come, Mrs. Enright ! — Mur- 
ragh, I’ve a crow to pluck with you presently. . . 

The large room on the first floor was already half full. 
The restive tunings of a white- jacketed band mingled with 
the talk and laughter of the groups that stood or moved 
under the crystal bouquets, softly showering light, of the two 
matchless chandeliers. Here and there a collar or pendant 
or suddenly-flashing comb rippled back the light with the 
movement of the wearer as light is rippled from the fringes 
of an April rain ; the passing dark figures of the men made 
a restless counterchange ; and the long, pilaster-like cur- 
tains of the tall windows led the eye up to the upper spaces 
of a tableau in the older manner, before the figure became 
so importunately the whole of the composition. 

There ran across the room to Berice, all slender shoes 
and upcaught cascades of petticoats, three girls. Lady 
Haverford, the precise degree of whose cousinship to Sir John 
Hartopp Berice was always on the point of understanding yet 
ever missing again, had made her party serve the pleasant 
little by-end of bringing certain of Berice’s older friends together 
again, and Emily Tracy was there, and both the Howitt 
girls, and others. Berice ran forward to meet them, and an 
old general, hearing the little fusillade of kisses behind 


LONDON 


191 

him, turned, laughed, and said, “ Your bevy, Hartopp, 
I think? ”... 

The noise broke out through the general hum as a foun- 
tain might splash out among wavelets. 

“ It’s Berice — how jolly ! ” 

“ And married ! . . . I don’t suppose you could make out 
one word of my letter, for Mary there — listen, Berice— that 

Mary ” 

“ I didn’t ! ” 

“ You did ! She fought with me for the pen, and I tried to 

turn her out of my room ” 

“ Emily ! ” 

“ She did, didn’t she, Alice ? ” 

“ It was you said about Bunny ! ” 

“ — and she wouldn’t go to her own bed, and you know 

what mine’s like ” 

“You know what she's like ! ” 

“ Is he here, Berice ? Oh, do let’s go somewhere where we 
can talk ! If only you could have been with us in Norway ! — ” 

“ Ssh, Mary ! You know ” 

“ Of course ; I’d forgotten . . . poor Lionel ! ” 

“ Oh, do come over here and have five minutes’ talk all to 
ourselves before ...” 

“ You dears ! ” said Berice, with shining eyes. . . . 

The little gale of talk passed away across the room, and 
Bartholomew heard the general’s laugh and remark, “ Our 
sex isn’t wanted there just at present ! ” 

Bartholomew detested dancing merely as dancing ; the 
explosion of the group that had abandoned him had set 
other tongues wagging more freely ; and the conductor of 
the white- jacketed band had tapped with his baton. In 
order that he should not be engaged until he desired, the 
poet approached a lady who no longer danced, and con- 
sented to havejthe beauties of his own verse explained to him. 
A couple or two had circled out over the shining floor ; others 
joined them ; the floor beat to a perceptible pulse ; and 
presently the inverted shimmering of the chandeliers could 
be seen only intermittently among the nimble feet and the • 
swinging skirts of the women. 


THE EXCEPTION 


192 

Bartholomew sustained his share of the conversation 
with his partner by means of monosyllables. His eyes 
scarcely wandered from one direction — the direction of the 
sofa beyond banked azaleas, under the high, pilaster-like 
curtains, where the four girls still kept their partners waiting. 
He watched and chafed. He didn’t care a rush about her 
girl friends. Bother her girl friends ! He wanted to know 
about tire men she had known — her husband, Neill, this 
Bunny, whoever he was, that the girl in blue had mentioned, 
any others. . . . 

“ So few men understand the woman’s point of view ” . . _. 
his companion was laying it on with a trowel. . . . 

“ Do you mean so few express it ? ” said Bartholomew, 
his mind elsewhere. . . . 

The good soul found him charming. . . . 

But suddenly he excused himself and rose. Sir John 
Hartopp had borne blusteringly down on the group beyond 
the azaleas, clapping his hands, and the girls had broken and 
fled. In a moment Bartholomew was at Berice’s side, offering 
her his arm. She placed her hand upon it, gave a laugh and 
a nod over her shoulder, and they slid into the dance. 

Her frock was of white satin, overwebbed with a slender 
mesh of the same pale low gold as her hair ; and she was 
still lightly tanned and faintly freckled as low as the small 
Florentine pendant at her throat. Below the pendant was 
milk-white flesh. Even his tired pulse had almost given a 
throb that was not artificial. . . . Her hand rested in his, 
but he set his teeth together and made no sign. To have 
made a sign would have been to play a different game al- 
together — a game common by comparison. . . . 

Half-way round the room he spoke. 

“I’ve remembered who it was who spoke of Neill the other 
day. It was Keigwyn. Or rather, somebody had been 
speaking of him to Keigwyn. He’s been doing a bust or 
something of the sort down in your part of the world, hasn’t 
he? ” 

For a moment, as Berice’s startled eyes swept the room, 
the waltz seemed to quicken. Then all was as before. 

“ Mr. Neill ? Yes,’’ she said. 


LONDON 


193 


“ I suppose that was where you met him ? ” 

“ Yes. He stayed with Sir John Hartopp.” 

“ So Keigwyn gave me to understand.” 

Her throat felt a trifle tight, and she was conscious of an 
uneasy desire to talk about something else. 

“ I don’t know him,” she said, looking elsewhere. 

But that beginning was as good as many others, and better 
than some, to him. He smiled. 

“ Keigwyn or Neill ? Keigwyn, of course. ... No, I 
hardly supposed you would. He’s a fine artist, but — well, 
it’s a queer mixed life, this of writing and painting. Men 
get jumblect together, all sorts. You’ve got to take the good 
stuff where you can find it — I’m making a social suggestion, 
of course. We all meet on the common ground of our work.” 

“ You mean he’s not — beautiful ? ” she said, remembering 
his dictum. 

“ His work is,” Bartholomew replied, with amused reserve. 
He was thinking of a dancing-room very different from Lady 
Haverford’s. This other dancing-room, the “ Schleswig,” 
had a bar at one end, a supper-table with a cheap cloth over 
a marbled top at the other, and one smoked where one 
chose. Men did get ‘ jumbled together ’ at the “ Schleswig ” 
— broken men, men too weakly good or undistinguishedly 
bad for society’s endurance, plucked, blackballed, * gone- 
under ’ men. Five hundred pounds could be quickly spent 
at the “ Schleswig.” Keigwyn was ‘ Keggie ’ there. . . . 

“ And by the way,” Bartholomew continued, “wasn’t it 
of some young fellow who died out in India that Neill did 
that bust ? Keigwyn mentioned the name, but I’ve for- 
gotten it ; I think it was Lionel something ” 

The sharpness with which she took in her breath was 
audible. He heard it, and continued without a pause. 

“ — possibly the Lionel of whom your friend was speaking 
a little while ago ” 

She began to repeat the words after him, but she did not 
finish the repetition. 

“ The Lionel ... oh, please take me to a seat — I’ve 
turned dizzy.” 

He had felt the spasmodic clutch of her hand ; it had 
*3 


THE EXCEPTION 


194 

followed his words with the promptitude with which an 
exposed nerve starts at the touch of an instrument. . . . 
They were near the sofa behind the azaleas ; if, as he led 
her to it, he made a quick mental note, his face did not betray 
him ; there was nothing on it but concern as he saw her 
seated and then bent over her with solicitude. 

“ Oh, dear ! ” he said in perturbed tones. . . . “ What 
is it ? I’m so sorry ! . . . Can I get you anything ? ” 

He remarked — he missed nothing — that she had changed 
colour and closed her eyes. Her lips moved. 

“ No — no — I shall be all right in a minute or two — it’s 

nothing — please leave me alone for a few minutes ” 

“ Do you mean not talk to you ? ” 

“ Leave me altogether, please ” 

With another look of concern he bowed and did so. 

But he did not go far. Placing himself near the palms 
that banked the music-dais he watched her covertly. From 
the very first he did not believe in this sudden faintness of 
hers. She had changed colour, but that, he was sure, was 
not illness. It was not a matter of course with Bartholomew 
that he took the word of man or woman merely because it 
was passed, and he had felt that quick involuntary grip of 
her hand. Had anything he had said been the cause of it ? 
He was trying to remember what he had said. ... 

But nothing he remembered furnished any explanation. 
The whole occurrence was rather odd. He stood there, 
musing, watching/ wondering, trying this solution and 
that. . . . 

And she ? She sat stupid, dazed, unstrung. No more 
than he could she have told exactly what ailed her. It was 
not entirely at that quick upstarting of a name that her 
throat had grown tight and her knees had threatened to 
fail her ; she was inured to the upstarting of that name : 
that upstarting, it seemed, came all in the chances of the 
day ; this was something else. She, too, as she sat there, 
hidden from the dancers by the bank of azaleas, was trying 
to remember words — trying to remember what had immedi- 
ately preceded the mention of that name. . . . 

After a moment she did remember : Keigwyn . . . Keig- 


LONDON 


195 

wyn, whoever he was, had said something to Bartholomew 
on which, unless she had imagined this, Bartholomew had 
dwelt a little. For some reason or other Bartholomew 
a little flashed something before her eyes for which appar- 
ently the name of Keigwyn stood. Why did he do so ? 
Who, after all, was this Keigwyn ? What had Keigwyn 
said that Bartholomew should assume her interest in ? And 
who (she remembered this) had been speaking to Keigwyn 
about Neill’s work, and why ? . . . The old defensive habit 
stirred again. She was vaguely uneasy. She had asked to 
be led to a seat, not because any bolt had pierced her to the 
centre, but in order that she might be alone for a moment 
and think. 

For the habit of thought was fastened upon her, and she 
must think. If for no other reason than common prudence 
she must find out what, if anything, was in Bartholomew’s 
mind. Though she ran the risk of creating a suspicion, 
where at present none existed, she dared not leave things as 
they stood. And in order to find out that she must find out 
first who this Keigwyn was, and how the name of Lionel 
Finch-Ommaney had come to be on the lips of a man whose 
name she had heard barely twice. . . . 

Yes, and upon those of another man, apparently, to whom 
she could not even affix a name in her thoughts. . . . 

And if in all this she was going over old ground again, it 
was with at least the illusion of newness. For the circum- 
stances of her life had changed, and, though Life had still 
not given her all she demanded of it, it had, even in seven 
or eight months, undeniably opened out in many ways. 
For eight weeks at least she had travelled ; comparatively 
recent scenes and memories, already becoming blurred and 
indistinct, had yet left a general and permanent impression 
of enlarged horizons ; and, more important still, she had 
moved among people whose ideas, whether better or worse, 
were not the ideas of Cotterdale and Ridsdale. — Yes, in- 
numerable new modifications were now to be applied to 
that old central fact of her life. There were, she knew, men 
and women in the world — in that very room, perhaps — 
who, had it been suggested to them that that thrice-sterilized 


THE EXCEPTION 


196 

ghost could still affright her, would have opened a quizzical 
eye, stared, asked whether she was serious, and probably 
have laughed outright at the humour of the notion. One of 
these, for that matter, had just left her side. . . . 

For a new spirit was abroad, that dealt with such things 
with a lenience infinitely taking and sympathetic. The 
novels she had already read, the plays she had already seen, 
even fragments of discussion she had already heard, told 
her that. And she was twenty-eight — no child — and sorely 
ached for the things with which this New Spirit went at- 
tended. 

For it was an enlightened and a humane and a bound- 
lessly charitable spirit. It mitigated the hardness and 
severity of things, and made little deprecating hushings-up 
when inconvenient questions of merely mundane significance 
were raised. Those who preached its doctrine declared with 
irresistible candour that they made no pretence to an im- 
possible austerity, and smiled without too much display 
of natural satisfaction when those who did came a cropper. 
“ See,” they said, “we are not a scrap worse than anybody 
else really — and think how much to the good we are in 
charity, in gentleness, and in not blaming a single one of 
God’s creatures ! ” . . . Laws, they said, were made for 
man, and not man for laws. All laws, they said, must bow 
before the strong soul ; and souls of precisely the required 
degree of strength flocked to the standard. . . . 

And who, when these closed up shoulder to shoulder in 
the forefront of revolt, had the right to say that they would 
not have been found in the van had duty and inclination not 
gone hand in hand ? Because ease and all-round pleasantness 
could be shown to accrue, was the divinity of the gospel to 
be doubted ? No, no, no. They were reformers, these, 
marching to a clearer day. Beautiful names were woven 
into their banners. And if here or there a feeble or erotic 
mind was to be found in that brave band, what holy cause 
may not suffer that derogation ? 

And how if this new and merciful spirit were able to show 
that that which for so long Berice had considered an error 
was in truth no error at all, but a stirring towards emancipa- 


LONDON 


197 

tion, a breaking of an unnatural bond, and a challenge to 
tyranny ? ... Ah, if that spirit could show that, how 
Berice’s heart would go out to it ! That would be release — 
rebirth — Life ! 

And there was Bartholomew, the man who could teach 
her, standing near the musicians, waiting for her. She re- 
membered Keigwyn again. ... It became exciting. It 
became almost breathlessly exciting when she remembered, 
too, that in order to find out what all this about Keigwyn 
meant she must match her wits against the poet’s — must 
get something out of him while giving nothing away herself. 
In any case it was with Harry’s consent that they were here 
together this evening ; she would make the most of that ; 
she would pump the poet now. . . . Her heart thumped ; 
she closed her eyes for a moment ; then she opened them 
again and looked round. 

He was at her side instantly. 

“ Are you better ? ” he murmured. 

“ I felt suddenly giddy.” 

“ Hadn’t you better drink something ? ” 

“ Perhaps it would be better.” 

“ Shall I bring it to you here, or will you come down- 
stairs ? ” 

“I’ll come downstairs,” Berice said. 

She rose. They glided through the dancers and passed 
down the wide staircase to the supper room. 

The supper room was a pink twilight of shaded candles, 
with soft gleams of glass and napery and flowers, and it was 
empty. At the farther end of it was a small alcove the 
curtain of which Bartholomew held aside ; but she had 
already sat down at one of the small tables. He took a 
spike and a napkin and opened a bottle of champagne ; she 
half-emptied her glass at a draught, and he filled it again. 
A maid appeared, but at a word from him retired again. 

The significance of Bartholomew’s beginnings rarely 
appeared until his end was in sight, and then it was usually 
to be seen that his plan had been of a piece all along. He 
began significantly now. 

“ Won’t you come in here, where you can close your eyes 


THE EXCEPTION 


198 

without being seen by anybody who comes in ? ” he said, 
again indicating the alcove with his eyes. “ We shall be 
missed anyhow, and we may as well be hanged for a sheep 
as a lamb,” he added. 

“ Hanged ? ” she said. . . . 

“ Do you doubt it ? ” he merely replied. . . . 

He had filled his own glass at the same time as hers, but 
he made no motion to touch its contents. Indeed, he rarely 
drank, and was far from wishing to drink now. Drink was 
all very well for Keigwyn at the “ Schleswig,” but Bartholo- 
mew tasted Life with a more sensitive palate. He studied 
her face covertly, and presently again made a remark the 
significance of which he left to appear in the fullness of 
time. 

“ Oh, yes, we shall be hanged — you see the way things 
are going, and know that as well as I do. Any reason, or 
none at all, will do ; this is probably our last tete-a-tete . 
I must respect your wish.” 

She did not notice that already it was he, not she, who 
was taking a lead that she might find it a little difficult to 
regain. She replied disclaimingly. 

“ My wish ? ... If you mean the continuance of our 
friendship, it’s no wish of mine ! ” 

“ Oh, pardon me ! ” He apologized that he should have to 
differ. 

“ How mine^? ” 

“ Ah, that ! ” His shrug put the responsibility of 

answering that question on her. 

“ Do you mean ” 

“ I mean,” he interrupted, “ that the only thing that 
could save you from the hanging I spoke of you don’t seem 
— happily for you, perhaps — you don’t seem to have got.” 

“ What’s that ? ” she demanded. 

He made a deprecating “ Tut, tut ! . . . You don’t mean 
you want me to tell you ! ” 

“Oh, yes, I do,” she replied. 

His smile said, “ Come, come — that’s rather too much ! ” 

“ Certainly I want you to tell me,” she said again. 

“ Oh, very well, but I shall have to do so in my own words, 


LONDON 


199 

and you’ll have to take the risk of misunderstanding them. 
It’s a question of — of moral terminology, you see. If I 
were to say you lacked courage you’d probably throw some 
marital virtue or other at my head, and we should be both 
meaning the same thing really.” Again it was as if he snapped 
his fingers softly at the multitude of things he denied. Even 
in the way in which he abstained from using her married 
name there was a subtle claim — at least the negative claim 
that if he might not have what he wanted he refused to 
accept anything less. She felt that if she was to match her 
wits against his now was the time. It was not now their 
menaced friendship she wished to hear about, but Keigwyn. 
She took up his last remark — took up the glove he had non- 
chalantly tossed down before her. 

“I didn’t know we were discussing myself and my quali- 
ties,” she said. “ I’m afraid they’re very poor material.” 

Again came the smile. “Not at all. ... Do you forbid 
discussion of ourselves ? ” 

No, she didn’t forbid that, she said. She felt that to forbid 
that might in the result be but a poor way of getting informa- 
tion out of him. . . . 

“ Then why the remark ? ” 

She offered to withdraw the remark if he wished. . . . 

“ Oh, no. Let’s go on. I should like to be able to flatter 
myself that you didn’t find me dull ; I, at any rate, find you 
interesting,” he said, his eyes paying her the compliment 
that to interest him was no trifle. He meant that he found 
his sensations in her presence interesting. 

She inclined her head. 

“ You’re very good,” she said demurely. “ But mayn’t 
we talk about the things I find interesting ? ” 

“ You’ve only to name them. . . It was an instant 
and gallant gesture he made. He noted that her sickness 
appeared entirely to have left her. 

“ Well,” slightly elaborately, she appeared to be revolving 
a number of more or less interesting topics, “ anything 
will do really that isn’t quite stale to me. What were we 
talking about before ? Mr. Keigwyn, wasn’t it ? He’ll do 
as well as anything else. ...” 


200 


THE EXCEPTION 


He had quite indescribably the air of making a swift note. 
He gazed into his full champagne glass. . . . 

“ I wonder what it is you find interesting about Keigwyn ? 
He’d be flattered ” he remarked. 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” she said airily. “ Why is anything 
interesting, for that matter ? ” 

His reply was to look long, deeply, familiarly into her 
eyes. He had not forgotten Keigwyn, but Keigwyn could 
wait for a few minutes : he had something else to do for the 
moment — to test that ‘ courage ’ of hers of which he had 
spoken. He continued to look. . . . 

The result of his testing appeared in the dry, corrosive laugh 
with which he dropped his eyes again. 

“ Oh, dear ! ” he murmured to his glass of lifeless cham- 
pagne — he had already filled hers again, and again it was 
half empty. “ Is it as bad as ?tll that ? ” 

This was unexpected, and found her a little abroad. “ As 
bad as all what ? ” she demanded. “ Is what as bad ? ” 

“ I mean,” he murmured, still to the glass, the stem of 
which his fingers were lightly tapping, “ is your hus — well, 
say your life — so uninteresting that anything whatever 
would be a relief ? ” 

She frowned a little. “You were going to say my hus- 
band,” she said. 

“ H’m ! . . . Well ? . . .” he said quietly. 

“ You were . . 

“ Well ? . . . What then ? ” 

Her next words came an hour or two too late. “ Well — 
we’ll leave that out, I think.” 

But he looked suddenly up. An open guffaw could hardly 
have been more mocking than his smile. 

“ Really ? ” he said, looking into her eyes again. “ Now ? 
. . . Do you mean — do you actually mean — that we’ve 
been absolutely misunderstanding one another for the last 
hour and a half ? ” 

This time her eyes fell in confusion. ... It had been so. 
They had been discussing her husband— or he had, and she 
had listened — rather freely. But that, bad enough, seemed 
somehow worse when it was given the open recognition 


LONDON 


201 


Bartholomew gave it. Imperceptibly her sense of injustice 
and tyranny had led her into it, and now Bartholomew had 
flicked pretence aside. It had not occurred to her — in this 
instance at any rate — that it is easier to admit somebody 
into your life than to thrust that person out again. She 
coloured faintly. 

“ Well, we can stop now,” she said abruptly. 

He showed himself excellent, immediate, entirely at her 
least reasonable disposal. Since she did not wish it. . . . 
He bowed suavely and indifferently. “ I beg your pardon 
if I have. . . . Shall we go upstairs again ? ” He made a 
movement as if he only waited for her to rise. 

But she did not rise. To go upstairs again would hardly 
serve her purpose. She had not yet as much as begun to 
find out what she wanted to know ; and vaguely she began 
to see that so far he had had the direction of their conversa- 
tion. This would never do. . . . Again she sipped from 
her glass, and put up her hand as he made as if once more 
to replenish it. 

“No more, thank you ; it will be getting into my head. 
. . . I don’t think, Mr. Bartholomew,” she said slowly, 
“ you understand me as well as you seemed to. For instance, 
you said a little while ago that I’d lived in Yorkshire the 
greater part of my life. Well, so I have. I was hoping 
you’d understand the limited point of view of the simple 
village maiden ; but I — I really don’t think you do.” 

He tapped his fingers in time to the waltz that set the 
ceiling overhead slightly palpitating ; then, looking up for 
a moment, he asked if there were no experiences to be had in 
Yorkshire. 

“Yes, yes,” she said, with a little wave of her hand, “ but 
that’s not what I mean. Life’s life everywhere, of course ; 
but you won’t pretend that there isn’t a wider life than that.” 

“ Keigwyn’s ? ” he suggested a little maliciously. . . . 

“ Please don’t be ridiculous. . . .” 

“Well,” he resumed presently, “if it’s your village- 
maiden innocence, as you call it, that requires enlightening, 
I dare say at a pinch I could do it. . . . Anything you like 
to ask me. ...” 


202 


THE EXCEPTION 


A willingness on Bartholomew’s part to be questioned 
categorically was hardly characteristic of him unless he 
wished to inspire confidence or to allay suspicion. Moreover, 
to be told, lacking a clue, to go ahead with your questioning 
is only a little less embarrassing than to be refused altogether. 
He saw her half-vexed smile, and, expertly taking her mea- 
sure, quite confident that the more she said the more game 
she would be likely to start, yielded with an indulgent laugh. 

“ I see,” he said. “ You mean you’re having rather a 
dull time . . . but I beg your pardon ; that’s taboo. — 
Say, then, that you want to know things, and don’t quite 
know what they are. Well, neither do I ; to be asked to 
talk about Life at large is rather a big order. Let me see : 
how did we come to be talking about this at all ? . . . Ah, 
yes : Neill ; we began with Neill. I was saying that Keigwyn 
had been saying that some man or other had been saying 
(it’s a little involved — I hope you follow it) that Neill had 
been doing a bust — I think it was a bust — of some fellow, 
I fancy his name was Lionel, who had died in India. (There, 
I’ve said it, but please don’t ask me to repeat it !) . . . Well, 
and so you want to know about this wonderful Keigwyn. ...” 

He proceeded to tell her a number of things about Keigwyn 
that were entirely wide of any purpose whatever. She for 
her part feigned a charming candour and interest, and put 
questions and made comments that were equally beside the 
mark. The waltz upstairs had ceased, and the band had 
dashed off the peremptory summons to the Lancers. . . . 

“ I’m telling you all this,” he broke off after a further 
recital to say, “ but it’s merely because you ask it. I really 
don’t quite see where the interest comes in. . . .” 

It waS true ; he did not ; but he saw clearly enough that 
it had an interest for her. Perhaps even then — since we all 
interpret others according to what we find in ourselves — he 
was making swift mental fetches. But he took care that 
she should not see that. . . . 

“ I said before,” he continued, glancing up at the ceiling 
for a moment as the masculine thud that introduces the 
Ladies’ Chain shook it, “ that we — we writers and sculptors 
and so on — meet on the common ground of our work. Neill’s 


LONDON 


203 

too good a man, of course, for anything he does to pass un- 
noticed. Ergo, this friend of Keigwyn’s, a sculptor himself 
for anything I know, finding a genuine signed Neill in an out- 
of-the-way country church, spreads the news among other 
sculptors, and — and there you are. ...” 

“ It’s — it’s awfully interesting,” she murmured absently. 
A sculptor naturally takes an interest in a brother sculptor’s 
work, but it had not been by a sculptor that the last comment 
on that memorial she had heard had been made. . . “I 
suppose it’s because Harry only cares about the other side 
of all this sort of thing that I find their actual lives so inter- 
esting. ...” 

And the more he saw of it, the more interesting he, too, 
found it ; but he only said “Not at all ” — vowed that more 
commonplace gossip had never passed his lips. Actually he 
was beginning to tingle with the interest of it. This superb 
creature of pale gold and the tan of the sun actually had 
the assurance to pump him — him of all men : he knew it, 
and enjoyed it richly. . . . 

“ By the way,” he remarked casually, after a silence, 
“ I suppose the bust is of this Lionel, whoever he was ? ” 

“Yes,” she said, her fingers playing with the stem of the 
glass from which she had again sipped. . . . 

“ What was his other name ? ” . . . 

From upstairs floated the strains of a two-step ; gently she 
moved the champagne glass in time to it. She continued this 
for a moment ; then she answered, without a tremor of her 
voice or the flicker of a lid : 

“ His name was Lionel Finch- Ommaney. He was a 
lieutenant in the Malverns. He was killed on shooting- 
leave. The Finch- Ommaneys are neighbours of ours.” 

Bartholomew nodded. All that he said was “ Poof chap.” 
. . . His fingers were at his own glass, moving it this way 
and that on the table. He seemed to be in a reverie. . . . 
By the time he had come out of the reverie his full glass 
stood beside her own almost empty one. 

Then suddenly he looked up. 

“ Will you introduce me to Neill ? ” he asked. “ He 
doesn’t know it, but I’ma great admirer of his, and I should 


204 THE exception 

like to ask him about what, I don’t doubt, is a fine piece of 
work.” 

She was beginning to reply “ With pleas ” but all in a 

moment a swift thought came to her. That thought opened 
up a prospect entirely new — made an arrangement of the 
parts of the kaleidoscope that no former turn of the instru- 
ment had effected. That new combination must be examined. 
. . . “ With pleasure,” she said more slowly ; and then 
proceeded to examine the possibilities of the new turn. . . . 

Instantly she was uncomfortable. If she brought Neill 
and Bartholomew together there was the chance — the im- 
probability, perhaps, but still the chance — that Neill might 
unwittingly drop an indicative word. He would not make 
free with her name ; there was no fear of that ; still, her 
name might be mentioned, and it is no great lapse in honour 
to say of a woman that she is magnificent. And Bartholo- 
mew, whose finger she had now begun to feel, as it were, 
making slight palpitations upon her pulse, seeking outlying 
arteries, would probably agree that she was magnificent. . . . 
She did not mistrust Bartholomew ; nevertheless, magnifi- 
cence with Neill and magnificence with a man who justified 
all things by beauty and interest were likely to have meanings 
the difference of which it would be unsafe to ignore. Even 
where she had no reason for mistrust she meant to keep 
everything, down to the very last detail, entirely and abso- 
lutely in her own so capable hands. . . . 

“ With pleasure,” she murmured again, inwardly resolved 
that, if she could compass it, Neill should remain for the 
rest of the evening at one end of the ballroom and Bartholo- 
mew at the other. 

“ Thank you,” he said. 

She had pushed back her chair, as if to rise, but suddenly, 
at a word from him, she stopped. “ What ? ” she said ; 
and “ Eh ? I beg your pardon,” he said, in the same moment. 

“ What did you say ? ” 

Bartholomew murmured. 

“ I said, ‘ Poor chap.’ The youngster, I mean.— I suppose 
he was quite young ? ” 

“Not twenty-seven.” 


LONDON 


205 


“ Sad. Did Neill know him ? ” 

“ I think not. . . . No, I mean.” 

“ H’m ! . . . Then it was odd he should take a cobbler’s 
job like that on. It’s really not like him. He’s rather scru- 
pulous in such matters, if all accounts are true.” 

Berice had again pushed back her chair and risen. It had 
occurred to her suddenly, oddly suddenly, that they had 
been absent from the ballroom a long time. They were 
playing another waltz now. . . . And all at once she felt that 
she wanted to be rid for the present of Bartholomew. His 
last words, though he of course did not know it, had 
shown her the danger-light again. . . . She answered at 
random. 

“ I believe Mr. Neill is scrupulous in all matters. I — I like 
him.” It was true that with her marriage much of her 
resentment against Neill had passed. 

“Yes, yes,” he said absently, not immediately rising, 
though she stood. . . . 

No more than she did he intend to betray his real thought. 
This was once more about the men she might have known. 
... It was laid down as an axiom in the Centamours that 
‘ never may mean once, but that once always means twice 
and thrice ’ ; and the Centamours contained the suspect 
whole of him. If there was some man, not her husband ? . . . 
It was not Neill — he had seen Neill. A ‘ Bunny ’ had been 
mentioned — it might be he. Or it might, if Bartholomew 
had luck, be this other. ... A bow can always be drawn 
at a venture, hitting if it hits, if it misses meaning nothing. 
The faintest throb of the minor arteries on which he now 
had a sensitive finger would be traceable to head-quarters. 
That she was not unwilling, in spite of her rising, to continue 
their talk was shown by the fact that she had sat slowly 
down again, as if she realized for some private reason or 
other that matters could not now be left at the present 
juncture. ... He would draw the bow. . . . 

“No doubt you liked the other one too ? ” he said, his 
eyes sensitive past all description to read the minutest 
symptom of betrayal. . . . 

It had hit. Some of the contents of the glass she was in 


206 THE EXCEPTION 

the act of once more lifting to her lips spilled ; the rest set 
her coughing. . . . 

“You did ? ” he repeated in a voice the perfect control 
of which astonished himself. The words were hardly a 
question. . . . 

Then in a flash, the swiftness of which was only increased 
by the wine she had drunk, she saw the truth — that in a 
contest of wits and persistence she had no more chance with 
him than the coursed rabbit has against the whippet. Her 
breath had suddenly come short and agitatedly again, so 
that his thought, as he watched her, was “ 111 again ! ” . . . 
What was she to do ? . . . Denial, after that swift involun- 
tary betrayal, would not, she knew, be believed ; indifference 
also was not credible ,* and the possibilities of a meeting 
with Neill that she might not be able to prevent were an 
unknown quantity. There was only one thing to do — it 
was the most hazardous of all, but there was nothing else — 
already he was awaiting her reply, and but making answers 
of his own for every moment she delayed — he must be given 
to understand exactly what Neill had been given to under- 
stand . . . nothing more nor less. . . . 

“ I’m sorry if I’ve trespassed ” he was beginning in a 

sympathetic murmur. . . . 

Her head fell. She sobbed out the words in a low voice. 

“ Oh, I — I thought too much of him ! Of course, you saw 
— I tried to keep it from you — you see, you see — oh, let us 

- • J) 

• 

She covered her eyes with her hand. 

It was all he wanted. His manner was now one of 
almost reverent respect for her emotion. A minute or two 
passed ; then, with a nervous little laugh, she lifted her 
head again. 

“You must think me very ridiculous ” 

What he thought was his own affair. He murmured 
soothingly. 

“ Hush — oh, I almost said ‘ Hush, dear woman ! * Per- 
haps I understand. Rest for a moment ; then we’ll join the 
others ” 

“ One minute ” 


LONDON 


207 

“ Yes, just sit quiet. I won’t speak. — I wouldn’t drink 
any more of that champagne if I were you ; have some 
coffee instead. Shall I ask one of your friends to come down 
to you ? ...” 

He could afford to leave her now. He had had his sensa- 
tion, and, unless all indications were wrong, knew in what 
direction to look for others. That by and by. . . . 

“ I’ll send your friend in pale blue to you,” he murmured, 
bending so closely over her head that he suddenly thought 
it prudent to recover himself. “ You’ll be all right until she 
comes ? I’ll say you’re not well . . . and that will explain 
too ... in case you’ve been missed. ...” 

At the door he turned to look back at her. Her face was 
exquisite in the rosy penumbra of the candle shades, and her 
shoulders dazzling. Her chin was in her hands, and she was 
gazing fixedly under the satin rim at the flame of the candle. 
She did not turn her head, but she was still conscious of his 
presence, for she made a slight gesture, a scarcely percep- 
tible gesture, inflaming to him, of the whole of her body 
rather than of any part of it, as if to say, “Go now.” He 
obeyed. . . . 

Berice danced again and again that night, but only once 
more with Bartholomew. Except for that once he did not 
ask her. Nor was his talk, either then or later, in the hansom, 
as he took her back home, more than casual gossip of the 
dance — of her friends, of Mrs. Enright, Neill’s betrothed 
(Neill had presented her to Berice, praying to be allowed to 
call on her and her husband), and of the later arrivals of the 
theatre party. Then, as the hansom slipped through the 
deserted streets, he ceased to talk at all. They stopped at 
her home. Bartholomew held the gate open for her, found her 
key, but did not set foot into the garden. “ Good night, 
and thank you,” she said, giving her hand, ajid he stood at 
the gate until the door should have closed behind her. It 
did close, and he got into the hansom again. 

“ Right,” he said to the driver. . . . 

And “ Right ” he said reflectively to himself. . . . 


XIX 


T HAT prolonged absence of Berice and Bartholomew from 
Lady Haverford’s ballroom did not improve matters 
at the house on the Embankment — for some busybody who 
saw no harm in anything at all (it was the lady who had 
pointed out the beauties of Bartholomew’s poems to their 
author, and she had called at the tea hour one afternoon 
when Harry was at home) must needs refer to the matter 
between two jests on “ the protracted Emney honeymoon,” 
as she called Berice’s relations with her husband. And as 
luck had it, her harmless communication fell unfortunately 
in respect of a certain statement Berice had to make of her 
views on the subject of marriage when it became tyranny. 
. . . From this statement she was careful not to omit the 
parable of the talents. . . . 

Emney listened patiently. He was not sure he quite 
understood her. . . . 

“ ‘ Your own life ? ’ ” he repeated after her. “You wish 
to live it ? . . . Well, what is there to prevent you ? ” 

She was careful not to mention Bartholomew’s name. 
“ Nothing in particular — nothing I can put my finger on, 
I suppose,” she admitted. “ But I want you to see my view 
of it. For instance, it might be a question of the friendships 
I should like to make.” 

“ Your friendships ? . . . Dearest, when have I tried to 
come between you and your friendships ? You have all the 
friends you ever had — the Tracys, the Howitts, Miss Dicken- 
son and the rest — and 3^ou’ve made a number of others ” 

“ Oh, those, of course — women ” 

It was almost equivalent to mentioning the name she 
had just foregone, but he made no remark. He frowned a 

208 


LONDON 


209 

little and stroked his moustache quickly, but spoke with 
patience. 

“ Who else do you want, Berice ? I really don’t want to 
stand in your way.” 

His reasonableness sometimes made her more exasperated 
than did his opposition. It was so now. 

“ It’s more a question of whom I might possibly want,” 
she returned. “ To tell the truth, I don’t know. It’s simply 
that I might.” 

“ Well, can’t we talk of it when you do know ? What’s 
the good of meeting trouble half way ? ” 

“ Why ‘ trouble ’ ? ” she asked. 

“ Oh, I don’t mean * trouble,’ of course. I mean any little 
difficulty or anything that might arise. I’ve got to speak 
in ‘ mights ’ too, you see.” 

“ What you mean is, that you might object ? ” 

“ Certainly there might be circumstances in which I should 
think it my duty to object — but that again is only a ‘ might.’ ” 

There was a silence. This was after dinner, in their own 
home, and they still sat at the table. Suddenly he leaned 
across the corner of the table and took her hand. She suffered 
the fondling laxly. 

“ Dear wife,” he said, “ the last thing I want is to seem 
rigorous, but — well, you’ve really no idea how inexperienced 
you are. I wish you’d sometimes admit — just once in a way, 
as a possibility — that I know more about the world than 
you do.” 

His voice was earnest. His love and pride in her were 
none the less that he did not always jump at her meanings. 
Again he caressed her reluctant hand. 

“ Oh, of course, you may have seen more than I have ; 
I dare say you have ; but that’s not what I’m talking about. 
In a sense, that only makes it worse. It’s a question of points 
of view.” 

He nodded. 

“ I quite see that. But you seem suddenly to have picked 
up a new one.” 

“Not suddenly.” 

“ Well, we’ll say you’ve got a new one.” 

14 


210 


THE EXCEPTION 


“ Perhaps not altogether new either.” 

“ Then why this sudden manifestation of it, my dear ? ” 

She chafed, and withdrew her hand from his. 

“ It’s — it’s — well, if I must tell you the truth, things 
aren’t turning out altogether as I thought they would,” 
she broke out. 

He sought to recapture her hand. “ Then let’s make them 
do so, dearest — let’s make them do so,” he besought her 
tenderly. 

“ Oh,” she cried petulantly, “ I don’t know whether we 
can — I don’t really believe we can. I’m not sure that we 
haven’t made ” 

But he did not allow her to add the words “ a mistake.” 
He came round the table, slipped to his knees, and put his 
arms *about her waist. His face was turned upwards im- 
ploringly. 

“ What, not your husband, Berice ? Not your husband 
who loves you ? ” he pleaded. 

“ Oh, I know all that,” she said, closing her eyes as if she 
found his affection rather tiresome. “ Of course you’re my 
husband. But sometimes you seem to forget the terms we 
married on.” 

“ That I was to make you love me if I could ? . . . Ah, 
let me, let me ! ” 

“ That — and that I was to be allowed some degree of 
freedom.” 

He seemed bewildered. . . . 

“ But, my darling, you have it ! What more freedom do 
you want ” 

She released herself from his embrace and rose. 

“ I haven’t it, Harry ; it’s idle to say I have. I can’t 
begin to give instances ; the whole thing becomes ridiculous 
looked at in that way ; it isn’t in any single thing — it runs 
through everything. I’ve the feeling you’re checking me, 
holding me in. I know you don’t do it deliberately ; I don’t 
think you’re always conscious when you do it ; and very 
likely it’s all my fault. But we’re simply not the same 
kind. We can’t help it now, of course, either of us ; but 
we’ve been married long enough to know something of each 


LONDON 


2 1 1 


other, and it seems to me that if we've made a mistake we 
ought to look it squarely in the face.” 

He, too, had risen, and had placed himself on the hearth- 
rug. His hands were deep in his trousers pockets, and he was 
looking at her with his head slightly forward. 

“ A mistake, Berice ? ” he said slowly. 

“If we have, I say.” 

“ If we have. . . . Darling, isn’t this just the way to 
make it one ? ” 

“ Oh, I said it was very likely all my fault.” 

Her tone took back any admission there was in the words. 
She was exasperated. Even his attitude on the hearthrug 
was that of proprietorship — not even sultanic, but rather 
stupidly owning. And the beginnings of a frown had now 
gathered on his brow. 

“ I didn’t want to speak of this again,” he said slowly, 
“ but you force me to it, Berice. . . . Tell me who’s been put- 
ting all this nonsense into your head. Is it that fellow Bar- 
tholomew ? ” 

She lifted her head. “ That again ? ... You seem unable 
to leave him out of it.” 

“ He seems to thrust himself into it,” he replied, the frown 
deepening. 

“ Whether he does or not you seem to seize on it as if it 
afforded you some satisfaction. I don’t want to come be- 
tween you and anything it’s pleasant for you to think, 
however ridiculous it is ; so have it so if you like. . . . Only 
let me point out that with a little reasonableness all this 
could be avoided.” 

He took a stride forward from the hearthrug. “ A little 
reasonableness ! ” he began ; and then again he checked 
himself and spoke more quietly. “ Listen, Berice,” he said. 
“ As I say, I didn’t want to mention this, but perhaps after 
all I owe it to you. I’ll tell you, then, and I hope it will set 
all this at rest once for all. It’s only lately that I’ve heard 
one or two rumours of this man — rumours of certain places 
he’s been seen at, certain company he seems to keep, and 
reports of a nature we needn’t specify. I needn’t say that if 
I’d heard them sooner I’d have taken very good care you’d 


212 


THE EXCEPTION 


never met him. I admit that I was perhaps a little too hasty 
in taking up with a man I didn’t know very much about — I 
admit it ; but if I was foolish, that was all. And it’s quite 
possible the things I’ve heard aren’t true, and anyway he 
isn’t here to defend himself. But it’s also quite possible 
that where there’s smoke there’s fire, and I’m going to give 
myself and you, not him, the benefit of the doubt. . . . I’ve 
determined he’s not to come here again. He’ll not know my 
reason ; I shall take no steps ; I shall merely not ask him 
again. I’m glad now that he’s never been on the footing 
of coming unasked ; that will make it all the easier. . . . 
Just one other thing. I should like to repeat now what I 
said the other day, but in stronger terms — that you’ll oblige 
me by having nothing more whatever to do with him.” 

Again she recognized the tone that was not to be trifled 
with. “ You assume that I want to,” was all that she dared 
say. 

“If you don’t, so much the better,” he said shortly. 

“ And,” she ventured further, “ as you say, he isn’t here to 
answer you.” 

“ I should say precisely the same if he was. And just one 
thing more. You speak of possible new friends. As I say, 
I don’t want to meet things half way, but it’s only fair to 
both of us that I should say this : that they're always sub- 
ject to my approval too. That also, I think, was made clear 
before we married, so please understand that. I don’t make 
the same mistake twice. I’m responsible, and I won’t be 
responsible unless I direct.” 

She did not dare to carry it any further. It was not that 
she could not have found more, much more, to say. She 
could have told him to his face, for instance, that he was 
jealous ; but the thought that he was jealous of a living man 
opened sulphurous vistas. . . . And, she complained to 
herself, he was certainly tyrannous. She seemed to hear again 
that laugh of Bartholomew’s that had such power over her. 
A curiosity, a relic, a survival, Bartholomew had called this 
conception of marriage that Harry had ; and she herself 
had more than once surmised that the inflexibility of his 
moral code was not unattributable to his origin. He had 


LONDON 


213 

climbed ; the thing just above him had always been the 
perfect thing, or he would not have longed so ardently to 
grasp it ; when he had discovered its imperfection there was 
always something else, really perfect this time, immediately 
above him ; and probably he was dreaming of something 
that did. not exist outside his own narrow, clean, puritanical 
heart. Withal he was hard ; his unflinching sense of justice 
was tempered with very little mercy ; and its most rigorous 
judgments seemed always to be passed in the very moments 
when she herself yearned for that gentler code of the novel- 
ists and playwrights — a code based on unlimited mercy, 
tempered with no more justice than would have sufficed to 
give it stiffening enough to hold the Emperor’s-new-clothes- 
like fabric together. How much easier such a code would 
have made things all round ! Nobody then would have been 
responsible for anything whatever. Sin would have met 
with sympathy, condoning, and the medical attentions of 
the alienist. Punishment there would have been none, since 
punishment is painful, and pain an evil. Laws would have 
operated with a by-your-leave — the transgressor would have 
been pityingly handed over to the quite sufficient torments 
of his own conscience — and Society would have been a sort 
of general office for the dispensing of indulgences for whoso- 
ever and whatsoever. . . . Beautiful, but so unfortunately 
unrealizable dream ! 

“ Oh, dear ! ” Berice sighed. . . . “ Well, your views certainly 
have the advantage of being easier than mine to express.” 

“ Dearest ! ” he appealed again, with hands a little out- 
stretched. “ Don’t, don’t be a rebellious darling ! ” 

“ Don’t be me , you mean,” she said despairingly. “ That, 
my dear Harry, is just the whole point ! ” 

“ Never mind the point — leave the point alone — don’t be 
a foolish child. Kiss me, Berice — ah, no ! Kiss me . . . 
there, that’s better than ‘ points ’ ! . . . Suppose we go to a 
theatre ? . . .” 

The last word of their wrangle nevertheless remained hers. 
They went to the theatre, but she chose the piece. It was 
The Unhappiness of Helen , and it was by an especial friend 
of Bartholomew’s. 


THE EXCEPTION 


214 

But not all their differences were settled so amicably. 
Sometimes his patience gave out earlier. Perhaps this was 
attributable to the state of his health, for he had a slight 
but obstinate cough, which the warmth of the weather did 
not appreciably relieve. Berice’s own abounding health 
was not a factor that made for tolerance of ill-health in 
others, and sometimes, when he kept his room for a day, 
or even his bed, and she read to him or wrote letters at his 
dictation, she was conscious of the irk it was to put on a 
decent mask of sympathy. On such occasions he was con- 
siderate of her and exacting towards her by turns, now in- 
sisting that she should leave him and go out into the air, 
and now craving for expressions of affection that were diffi- 
cult to grant to order and no less difficult to refuse. In this 
respect he seemed to become increasingly tactless, and one 
day — he had decided to spend the day in bed — he even 
went so far as to reproach her in so many words that her 
endearments were seldom volunteered. At that it was she 
who for once held herself well in check, and he who showed 
the petulance. 

“ Oh, Harry,” she said in a low voice, taking the hand 
that lay on the coverlet and looking earnestly at him, “ if 
only, if only we could understand one another ! I don’t 
care for you one bit the less because sometimes I don’t 
say it.” 

He tossed his head over on the pillow. “ Oh, it doesn’t 
matter, it doesn’t matter,” he complained, his face turned 
away. 

Her face wore a distressed look. 

“ Oh, dear, what can I say when you take things like that ? 
You know I love you— but sometimes you make it hard for 
me ever to tell you so ! ” 

“ It doesn’t matter ; don’t make a fuss,” he repeated. 
“ I understand. No woman wants a man when he’s like this. 
Won’t you go out for a walk ? ” 

“I’d rather stay with you ; I really would. I shall have 
to leave you for an hour presently, for it’s to-day Mr. Neill 
is bringing Mrs. Enright ; but let me stay with you till then.” 

But again he tossed his head on the pillow. 


LONDON 


215 

“ I’m only boring you. I— I ” Then his slight, hard 

cough came, occupying him for the next minute or so. . . . 
It left the whites of his reddish-brown eyes suffused with pink. 

“ You don’t care to come downstairs for an hour ? You 
needn’t dress properly,” she suggested gently. 

“No, I’m better here,” he said in a weakened voice. 
“You might ask Neill about that little Tanagra. The car’s 
ready as soon as he is.” 

(It had been some months before that Neill had written 
to them that he was going to copy in silver, as a wedding-gift 
and a ‘ mascot ’ for Emney’s car, one of the Tanagras in the 
British Museum.) 

“ Oh, Harry,” Berice interpolated, “ we can’t very well 
mention it, since he’s giving it to us ! ” 

“ No, I suppose we can’t,” Harry grumbled, knowing that 
as well as she, but not in the mood for concealing his private 
thoughts. “ But I hope he won’t be as long over it as he 
was with that thing of young Finch-Ommaney. ...” 

He turned on his pillow again, and for some minutes was 
silent. The example of Neill’s work of which he had spoken 
had taken his thoughts back to the little church in Cotterdale 
and the last time he himself had stood there. The chain of 
memory was traceable, for presently he said : 

“ You’ve not heard from your uncle lately, have you ? ” 

“Not for a fortnight,” Berice replied, her finger tracing 
the pattern of the coverlet. “ He’s still in Coventry, looking 
after his model.” 

(Everard’s jacket for the moment was the standardizing 
of motor alarms. He had designed a gong or a cornet, and 
dreamed of some such influence with the Board of Trade as 
should persuade that body to make the adoption of his 
device obligatory.) 

Again Emney was silent. This time his thought, had 
Berice known it, would have shocked her. Strive as he 
would to put the matter out of his mind, the memory of a 
certain counterfoil recurred to him from time to time. Quite 
by chance, the cheque that had been attached to that counter- 
foil, returning to the bank, had come under his eye, and he 
had seen that it was drawn * To Self ’ and endorsed ‘ Berice 


21 6 


THE EXCEPTION 


Emney.’ In matters of business he was scrupulous to the 
last farthing ; a distasteful suggestion of secrecy about the 
transaction, whatever it had been, had caused him genuine 
pain ; and though he had kept his own counsel he had not 
been able to avoid a surmise. The surmise was, that Everard 
had had the money and was jacketing with it. . . . Berice 
he could have pardoned for her lack of confidence in him ; 
she was utterly inexperienced in such matters ; but he 
thought the less of Everard Beckwith for it. . . . 

“ Here they are,” Berice said suddenly, as the opening 
and closing of a door downstairs was heard, and a servant 
presently tapped at the bedroom door. “ You’ll be quite 
all right if I leave you for a little while ? ” 

“ Yes. Apologize for me.” 

“ I’ll explain — though it won’t be necessary, as they won’t 
know you haven’t gone to your office.” 

“ No, of course they won’t : I forgot that. . . .” 

She kissed him and went out. 

But on the landing outside the bedroom door she found 
the servant still lingering. The servant said something that 
brought a sudden look of perturbation into Berice’s face. 
“Wait a minute,” she said to the servant ; and then she 
turned and re-entered the bedroom. She advanced to the 
bedside. 

“ Harry,” she said. 

“ Well ? ” 

“ It isn’t Mr. Neill and Mrs. Enright. It’s Mr. Bartholo- 
mew.” 

Slowly Emney’s face became rust-red on his pillow. For 
half a minute it became steadily more inflamed ; then he 
raised himself on his elbow. 

“ Who ? ” he said. 

“ Mr. Bartholomew.” 

“ Bartholomew ! ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Ah ! . . . Close the door, and then please bring me my 
dressing-gown.” 

Berice closed the door, but instead of fetching the dressing- 
gown returned to the bedside and bent over him. 


LONDON 


217 

0 Don’t get up, Harry,” she said quietly. “ We can send 
word down that nobody’s at home.” 

“ My dressing-gown, please,” he muttered, rising. “ We’ll 
end this now,” he added. . . . 

“ Dear,” she begged him, “ stay where you are. You’re 
not fit to get up ” 

“ I was fit enough a few minutes ago to see Neill, it seemed. 
It isn’t a question of my fitness ; it’s a question of what’s 
got to be done. — To come here and ask for you ! ” 

“ Darling ” 

“ I see. He didn’t know I was at home. I see, I see. To 
ask for you ! . . . Has this happened before ? ” he asked, 
suddenly looking her full in the face. 

“ Never, never, Harry ! ” she cried. 

“You swear that ? ” 

Her bosom had been pressed against his. Suddenly she 
withdrew it, and ceased to lean over the bed. 

" Oh, Harry ! . . . When I’ve said a thing I don’t feel 
called on to ‘ swear ’it. . . .” 

“You won’t swear it ? ” 

It was gross of him, and it stabbed her. “ No,” she 
replied, upright by the bed. “ You oughtn’t to ask it.” 

“ Perhaps not — but the fact remains that that man’s got 
some sort of hold on you,” he accused her, redly glaring. 

“ Hold ? What hold should ” she began, but he 

silenced her with a peremptory “ Brr ! Don’t tell me ! 

. . . My dressing-gown, and send word down to him that 
he’s to wait a minute or two. You stay here. Oh, yes, he 
shall see Mrs. Emney — or her representative at any rate ! ” 

He was half out of bed. 

Then the altercation began — one of those wretched alter- 
cations he seemed to have the power to drag her down into. 

“ Harry, you’re unjust ” 

“ Never mind that. Wait here till I come back.” 

“ More than that (I’m beginning to expect that of you) — 
you’re making the servant a party to this. She’ll see you go 
down.” 

“ Then the servant can leave. I’ll end this now ” 

• You’d end it equally well by saying nobody’s at home.” 


218 


THE EXCEPTION 


“ Thank you, but I know your suggestions for ending 
things. We’ll discuss those in a few minutes ” 

“ I rather object to your making yourself ridiculous, but 
I object most strongly to your making me so ” 

“ Your objections shall be attended to when this matter 
is settled.” 

Then abruptly she broke out : ”1 warn you, Harry ! 
You’re taking the wrong way with me!” 

“ We’ll see to that, too, later. I’ve suspected this for some 
time. I’m not sure that this is the first occasion ” 

" I swear it, I swear it ! ” she broke wildly out. 

“You refused to a minute or two ago — you’ve had time 
to think ” 

“ Harry ! ” The indignant cry rang out like a shot. 

“ I don’t care ! ” he cried. “ If I made a mistake before, 
I’ll mend it now! Upon my soul, I hesitate to take your 
word against the evidence of my own senses ! I don’t know 
how far this has gone, but I know how much farther it’s 
going ! I’ll get to the bottom of it ! ... Be so good as to 
wait here.” 

But she had advanced to the door. She spoke haughtily. 

“ I propose to wait in my own room. Do as you like, but 
don’t say I haven’t given you fair warning. Without reason 
you’re as jealous as a fiend ; be careful. . . .” 

“ To come here when he knows I’m out ! ” Emney was 
muttering, as he struggled into his dressing-gown. “ To 
come here. ...” 

But before he could make himself ready the servant had 
knocked at the door again. Berice opened the door herself. 

“ Mr. Bartholomew’s sorry, ma’am, but he’s afraid he 
can’t wait. He asked Mrs. Emney if she’d accept these 
theatre tickets. Mr. Bartholomew is sorry Mr. Emney 
isn’t well ” 

“ Has he gone ? ” Harrison Emney cried from the middle 
of the room. 

The distant sound of the closing of the front door answered 
him. The servant retired again. Emney, red with rage, was 
striding up and down the room. 

“ Of course he’d bring theatre tickets or something— an 


LONDON 


219 

excuse, an excuse ! My house ! . . . Sorry I was not well ? 
He learned I was at home, then, and bolted ! ... My house ! 
. . . And you — this isn’t the first time you’ve threatened 
me — you did threaten me a moment ago ” 

Berice, pale and upright by the door, was as cold as he 
was hot. 

“ Have you any further insults to heap on me?” 

“ I heap ! ... You heap them yourself. You lay your- 
self open to suspicion — to suspicion, I say. But you may 
consider this finished. I’ll write to him now ” 

There was a writing-table in the bedroom ; he crossed 
to it and sat down. He did not lift his head from his letter 
when she spoke again. 

“ Very well, since you force this on me,” she said. “ But 
there’s something you also may consider finished until you 
choose to sue for it again. ... I shall keep my own room.” 

“ Keep it, then, in God’s name ! ” he cried, still not looking 
up from the envelope into which he was thrusting two theatre 
tickets. 

The door closed behind her. 


XX 


I N keeping her word to him her heart was hardened as it 
had never been hardened. It was hardened by her con- 
sciousness of her perfect innocence of intention towards 
Bartholomew. She looked on Bartholomew as a maligned 
man. Sad error she knew only too well ; it was wrought 
like a dark woof into the web of her life ; and she thought 
that in knowing that she knew malignant wickedness also. 
Very well, was her thought : let things fall out as they might. 
She would not put herself in Bartholomew’s way, but she 
certainly would not study how to avoid him. And if they 
did chance to encounter, there would be a certain satisfac- 
tion in informing Harry of their meeting. She might as well 
be condemned with a reason as without one — be hanged, as 
Bartholomew had said, as well for the sheep as for the lamb. . . 

In the meantime, such speech as she had with her husband 
inclined to the frigid side of indifference, and he for his part 
obstinately placed chairs for her, and stiffly and sedulously 
held doors open for her whenever she left the room. 

The servant to whom Emney had given the letter to 
Bartholomew, with instructions to post it immediately, had 
descended the stairs as Neill and Mrs. Enright had ascended. 
A few minutes later Berice had received her two callers. 
They had not stayed long : Berice’s hint that her husband 
was unwell, and the still evident disturbance of her spirits, 
had been sufficient ; but one thing had been instantly plain 
to her. It was that Neill had spoken to his betrothed about 
her. She had been strongly attracted by the young widow’s 
face at Lady Haverford’s dance ; the huge dark eyes beneath 
the brows that ran a little upwards to the temples had spoken 
mutely to her with a gravity far too firmly established there 


220 


LONDON 


221 


by life and experience not to be perfectly harmonious with 
their quiet gleams of mischief ; and now, as Berice had taken 
her hand, those eyes had returned her own magnificence to 
her with rich acknowledgments. The three had talked about 
the dance — about Cotterdale (which Mrs. Enright had never 
seen, but of which also Neill had spoken) — of Bunny, whom 
she knew (Bunny, it appeared, had buried himself somewhere 
in Brittany) ; and then Neill and his betrothed had risen 
to take their leave. Berice had felt a swelling in her throat 
as, naturally and without a trace of self-consciousness, Mrs. 
Enright had done an unusual thing on a second meeting — 
put up her face (she was a small woman) to be kissed. 

“ You’ll come and see me, won’t you ? ” she had said. 
“ Come when Murragh isn’t there to bother us ” 

Then they had left. 

Berice returned her call when her estrangement from her 
husband had lasted a week. Mrs. Enright lived on the north 
side of Kensington Gardens, and Berice took a cab as far 
as the Memorial and then walked across the Park. She found 
Mrs. Enright at home, and, weary and harassed and un- 
strung by the occurrences of the past week, this time it was 
she who sought the embrace. 

“ Now we can talk,” said the young widow. . . . 

There were no stages in the coming together of the two 
women. Neill had got some of those things over. Perhaps, 
too, many things were already ripe in Berice’s own breast 
for that coming together. It had been with a little leaping 
of her heart that she had run across the ballroom to meet 
Emily Tracy and had lost herself for half an hour in a breath- 
less, exciting, eager, sweet girl-talk; women fly to women 
when distress hems them about ; and here was a woman 
who, if all rumours were true, had known the worst of Life 
pitifully early. Berice had not the least wish to unbosom 
herself to her ; she knew little about her save that in her 
presence something came over her heart that she had not 
known since she was a child ; and she did not think to inquire 
what it was in her that, like the Cotterdale rocks and heather, 
could be expressed in one word only — home. 

Mrs. Enright did most of the talking. Berice had already 


222 


THE EXCEPTION 


heard a little of her unhappy story, but Mrs. Enright spoke 
of it cheerfully, briskly even, and as no matter for sadness 
now. Out of that tragedy of her first marriage she had won 
a peace, a thankfulness that the world was as good as it was, 
and a sympathy for the stumblers and strivers and gropers 
that (though Berice did not know how she got this so strong 
impression, since it was from nothing that Mrs. Enright said) 
again brought the lump into her throat. Somehow it made 
her feel ashamed. It accused her, made her utterly self- 
centred. In especial it made of her break with Harry a 
miserable, vulgar, and contemptible thing. . . . 

“ And, of course, Murragh’s told me a little about you 
too,” Mrs. Enright continued, and immediately took away 
even the appearance of intrusiveness by hoping that Berice 
liked China tea. . . . But Berice writhed as she saw those 
dusty laurels of her supposed magnificence once more in Mrs. 
Enright’s eyes. . . . 

She sat with Mrs. Enright for an hour and a half that 
seemed to have wings ; and then she rose. She took both 
Mrs. Enright’s hands. The hardness at her heart had all 
gone. She told herself that she had been a beast. She intended 
now to go straight home and be reconciled with Harry. 

“ Good-bye,” she said. 

“ My name’s Mollie,” said Mrs. Enright. . . . 

" Good-bye, Mollie.” 

She left. 

Berice walked slowly towards the Gardens again, her 
thoughts humiliating her as she went. . . . Yes, she had been 
a beast. Even had Harry not been unwell she had been a 
beast, and he was unwell — so unwell that more than once 
she had had anxious thoughts about him. She now found a 
hundred things to say in his favour. She had only to give 
that jealousy of his another name — she had only to call it 
over-carefulness, a sense of responsibility for her safety, 
the superficially unattractive but strong reverse side of his 
love for her — and it became a thing she ought to thank God 
she possessed. She had called that restraint which was only 
security ; her eyes had been fixed, not on the treasures she 
had, but on treasures which, did she attain them, would 


LONDON 


223 

still leave her discontented ; and she had just left a woman 
who (she grew uncomfortably hot) had known nothing but 
hardship and neglect, faithlessness, penury, drunkenness and 
desertion, and yet had not suffered the odorous lamp of her 
faith and love to go out ! ... Yes, she was ashamed. She 
would seek Harry the moment he returned and tell him so. . . . 

She had stepped over the low railings to walk on the grass. 
Not far away on her right lay the Round Pond with its sails 
of cutters, grey and white, moving across the twinkling 
water. A chair-man passed her with his metal clip and strip 
of tickets, and she remembered that Harry would hardly be 
home yet. She would sit down. 

She walked towards a chair beneath a flowering chestnut. 

But she had not reached the chestnut before a hat was 
raised at her side. So absorbed in her meditation had she 
been that the gesture startled her. She turned. It was 
Bartholomew. 

He, too, seemed to have noticed that a mood lay heavy upon 
her, for he did not offer to walk with her. Mechanically she 
stopped. He did not speak, but in his eyes was a plain ques- 
tion : “ Well ? . . . What now ? . . .” She was still so 
absorbed that it positively took her half a minute to bring 
her thoughts to bear on his presence at all. Then she re- 
membered — her husband’s letter. 

“ Before you speak,” he suddenly said, “ let me tell you 
that I’ll leave you instantly if you wish.” 

The words put a slight, a very slight responsibility on her. 
Although they had been returned, she remembered that 
there were two theatre tickets he must be thanked for. 

“I’m very much obliged to you ” she said, with painful 

embarrassment. Bartholomew could hardly have appeared 
more discordantly with her wishes. 

“For offering to leave you ? ” 

“ No — I mean for the theatre tickets you were so good as 
to bring.” 

“ The theatre tickets ? ” For the moment he himself 

did not remember the precise excuse that had served his 
turn. “ Ah, those. ... I’m sorry you were unable to make 
use of them. It doesn’t matter,” 


224 


THE EXCEPTION 


“I had intended to write and thank you/’ she said, her 
eyes on the grass. 

“Oh?.. 

Such irony of intonation could not miss. It was as if he 
had said, “ You are allowed to write your own letters, then ? ” 
. . . She bit her lip. 

“ Anyway, I thank you,” she said, avoiding the eyes she 
felt he was trying to fasten on her. 

“ Pray don’t speak of it, Mrs. Emney.” He used her name, 
or refrained from using it, according as an end might be 
served. “ Does that conclude our conversation ? ” he added. 

“I’m — I’m — rather pressed for time,” she murmured 
awkwardly. 

“ Precisely. I understand. We might have talked as we 
walked instead of standing, but if my company might com- 
promise you ” 

“ I think I’d rather you — you ” she faltered. 

He bowed. “ Of course, it must be as you wish. But ” — 
his manner changed a little, almost imperceptibly hardened — 
“ but unless you’d very much rather, there’s something I 
should very much like to mention.” 

She wanted to be off, but he was not in any way forcing 
her to remain, and the quickest way to be rid of him might 
be to hear what he had to say. He, for his part, had been 
deferential in manner — almost to an extreme — as he would 
have been anything else for the sake of getting her to listen 
to him. 

“ Then please don’t be very long,” she murmured. “ I’m 
a little late now,” she added, and then remembered that he 
had found her seeking a chair. 

“ Very well. Thank you. — For that matter, it’s a thing 
that must be put quickly. — I suppose you know I had a letter 
from your husband ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Are you aware of the terms of it ? ” 

“ I didn’t see it.” 

“Nor hear it readjj? ” 

“ No.” 

“ But you know the purport of it ? ” 


LONDON 


225 


She hung her head. “ I — I think I do.” 

“ May I ask if the genial idea that prompted its sending 
originated with you ? ” 

Berice thought, carefully, long and nervously before 
replying. Then, anxious to make things clear, she answered 
in a low voice : 

“ It did not originate with me ; but ” 

“ ‘ But ’ ? ” he prompted, after a moment. 

“ But all the same it is my wish now, because — I feel I 
ought to tell you this — because I’ve come to the conclusion 
that my husband is — is — to be considered first.” 

He caressed his thrice-shaven upper lip ; his lids flickered 
once or twice behind his neat glasses. 

“ I see. . . . * First,’ you say. . . . Then would you, 
if it were possible, that is to say if you were — well, a free 
agent in the matter — consider anybody else (I’m not thinking 
of myself — it might be yourself you were considering) in a 
secondary sense ? ” 

She murmured something : it was no good discussing things 
that were not possible. . . . But he interrupted her. That 
slight hardening of his manner had grown into a stiffness. 

“ Oh, pardon me ! It may be a matter of some import- 
ance to me. You see, I haven’t replied to that letter yet. 
I confess that I was hoping I might chance to run across you 
before answering it. The terms of my reply will naturally 
depend a good deal on your attitude.” 

“ Then please understand that that is one of acquiescence,” 
she said quickly. 

He nodded. “ But it doesn’t follow even then that mine 
is,” he answered. “ Have you thought for a moment how I 
stand in this ? Let me explain. You know what there’s 
been between you and myself — nothing-? -rien de rien de 
rien. Our friendship has been absolutely open — clear of 
the faintest possibility of suspicion — or so I should have 
thought. But you see how this sudden change has altered 
things for me — for me, I say. I’m known to have been a 
visitor at your husband’s house ; suddenly it’s noticed that 
I don’t go any more. People gossip. One day, perhaps, an 
imputation is made that I’m compelled to take notice of. 

15 


226 THE EXCEPTION 

. . . But you know how things go round, and so I abridge. 
You see all this.— Well, in the face of it, don’t you think I 
have some right to consideration too ? ” 

Something within her warned her to leave him at once; 
and yet he was reasonable enough. And yet again, she could 
not prevent a little stiffening of manner as she replied : 

“ I’m sorry, Mr. Bartholomew — I’m deeply sorry. That’s 
all I can say.” 

But he fumed now. 

“ Sorry ? . . . Oh, I know what that means ! As far as 
that goes I dare say that ridiculous husband of yours — no, 
I will speak ; if you won’t give me leave I’ll take it ; I’m 
determined now to know how we stand — I dare say he would 
say he was sorry too, in that sense. But that doesn’t butter 
any parsnips. — You didn’t see the letter, you say ? ” 

“ Oh,” Berice appealed quickly, “ he wrote in heat ! ” 

“ And I’m to take it calmly — to take it lying down when 
he speaks vaguely of ‘ certain reasons,’ ‘ he’d be greatly 
obliged to me,’ ‘ things, probably untrue, have come to his 
ears ’ — willing enough to wound, and afraid to strike — good 
God ! If he’s anything to say, let him say it. There may 
be rumours about me for anything I know ; there may 

about him — or you — or any of us ” 

She could not in honesty say that he had not some reason 
for his passion. The efforts he appeared to be making to 
master it were, too, well enough in their way. No, she had 
to admit she could hardly take him up on the grounds of 
injustice to her husband. . . . 

“ And what, when you get to the bottom of it, is it all 
based on ? ” he cried, suddenly dropping his voice as some- 
body passed and continuing more quietly. “Oh, it’s really 
got nothing to do with me at all. 1 merely take the slashes 
he deals out ! ... I’ll tell you what it is really ; it’s this : 
That for a notion of marriage-rights and so forth that’s been 
exploded this twenty years he sacrifices first a fine woman — 
and then he sacrifices me, not fine, perhaps, but fine enough 
to know fineness when I see it ! For vieux jeu like that — fire- 
irons-and- fender love — a mulish impulse of possession, the 
instinct that any brute has — oh, I can’t trust myself to 


LONDON 


227 

find words for it, it makes me so sick ! — a fine flower of 
friendship is to be trampled down, you’re to be immured, 
and I’m to be plunged into Heaven knows what sort of a 
tangle of innuendoes and suspicions — all because he thinks 
a wife is a thing to be chained to a hearth as a dog is chained 
to a kennel ! ” 

“ Stop ! ” she cried, but wondering even as she did so that 
the cry should so lack resolution. . . . But she could hardly 
blame Bartholomew for thinking what she herself had thought 
only an hour or two before. . . . 

But his bitterness was doing its work excellently ; he 
would stop when it had ceased to be efficacious. 

“ I can’t stop now — we’ve gone too far. If this is to be 
our last meeting you shall at least know what I think ! And 
you ! You submit ! You come to heel like that ! By Heaven, 
if you do I lose less than I thought I did ! ” 

“ I won’t listen to you ! ” she cried, shaking her head in 
agitation. 

“ You’ve got to listen, at any rate for once. I'm not com 
tent to let things rest as they are ! ” 

“ Please leave me, Mr. Bartholomew,” she said, looking 
him for the first time in the eyes. 

But offers to leave her also had served their turn, and 
Bartholomew did not use the tools at the end that he found 
serviceable at the beginning. He refused to leave her. Whether 
for or against himself, all was one as long as he could con- 
trive to get her excited. . . . She could not have told — he 
probably knew to a yard — at what point they had begun to 
walk towards the tall trees behind which lay the Flower 
Walk ; she only knew that they were crossing a path in the 
direction of the Memorial and were approaching the less 
frequented part of the Gardens that lay westward. And he 
was talking again, in a tone in which the cold precision of 
resentment had taken the place of rage. 

“ You submit to it ! ” he declared with scorn. “ You, 
thinking as I do — you know in your heart you do — deny it 
if you can — you to fall away like this for lack of a little 
courage ! . . . I suppose you’ll tell him all about this meet- 
ing ? . . .” 


228 


THE EXCEPTION 


If his last words were not a taunt they were worse. Dully 
she was now trying to remember by what processes Bartholo- 
mew had become so admitted to her privacies that in his 
presence she hardly felt as if she belonged entirely to herself. 
Something — something precious — had gone out of her own 
keeping, and now, for the first time, she felt disquietude 
about the man she felt to be responsible for the safety of it. 
She had not seen him like this before, and she was rather 
afraid of him. . . . 

But she merely answered, “ I must.” 

“ Do you — er — confess to him ? ” he smilingly inquired. . . . 

Then swiftly she saw still more clearly how he was over- 
coming and possessing her. It was as if, rapidly, one after 
another, confident that some moment the significance of 
which she could not guess at had come, he was twitching 
any number of veils aside. Still more afraid, she cried out 
in an apprehensive voice. 

“ Oh, leave me, leave me, or I must run from you ! ” 

He scowled with penetration. 

“ Have you given yourself entirely over to him — present, 
past, world without end ? ” he asked. 

It was doubtful, overmastered as she was by this new and 
strange glamour of him, whether she could have run. . . . 
Nay, it was not doubtful, for as she passed a chair she suddenly 
sank on it, unkeyed, for the moment helpless. And he, 
standing over her, cruel, weighing, observing, thought that 
the time had come when he might do worse than let fly one 
more shaft at a venture. . . . Slowly he drew back until the 
cord was taut. . . . 

“ Have you done that ? ” 

She struggled with something in her throat. 

“ Have you ? . . . Future, present ”— an exquisite pause 
—“and past? ... Ah, you have l" he triumphed; and 
then, after another pause, “ And how did he take it, with 
those hidebound views of his ? ” 

He had landed— in the clout. Her face, swiftly upturned 
to the sky, its pallor and its spasm of anguish, proclaimed it 
aloud. The day seemed to blacken over her, the ground to 
heave beneath her. By whatever steps it had come about— 


LONDON 


229 

by what hazards, piecings together, trackings, gropings, 
checks, pickings up, wormings and nosings he had come by 
the knowledge, he knew — God of Pity, he knew ! . . , 

And with a far more frightful shock than any knowledge 
that had come to him had administered, knowledge had come 
to her also — knowledge of what this man was. It was a 
hideous overturning and descent. She was too dizzy and 
sick to be able to clutch at even a single fragment of the 
wreckage of what she had thought him to be : faiths and 
credulities and beliefs rushed away from her as if they would 
leave her nothing but to mock herself and die. His poems ! 
.... His beautiful words ! . . . His friendship with 
her ! . . . 

And then, in that moment in which her whole brain flamed 
white with the knowledge that he knew, and the knowledge 
of the purpose to which he would put his knowledge, a wonder 
happened. As they say of a man strapped to the horrid 
lightning-apparatus of death that excess of shock so whelms 
and shatters his frame that he continues to live as he had 
long ago lived as an unknowing babe, so in the very heart and 
storm-centre of dread she found a mysterious rest and still- 
ness. It was in a voice that seemed to her to be imperfectly 
located, that she did not at all recognize as her own, that she 
spoke after many minutes. Already that seemed an age-old 
question of his to which she replied. 

“ Take what ? ” that imperfectly located voice that seemed 
the voice of a third person sounded far away in her ears. 

He repeated the words after her. “ Take what ? . . . 
Why, take what I’m speaking of.” 

Again that stranger’s voice spoke with her lips. 

“ I can’t have heard you properly. I beg your pardon. 
Will you tell me again what that was ? ” 

And he found her superb — superb, to dare to play it out 
to a finish like this ! His voice also seemed to her to come 
across voids and chasms. 

“ Is it necessary ? ” she heard him say. 

“ It is necessary,” came from herself. 

“You mean . . . you won’t take it as said ? ” he cried in 
astonishment. . . . 


230 


THE EXCEPTION 


“ I must know what it is, please.” 

He laughed — he truly laughed. He had not performed 
such an exquisite disembowelling this many a day. . . . 

“ Well, for one thing, you’re leaving out of the question 
certain powers of observation on my part,” he said. 

“ Be specific.” 

“ Certain powers of observation on my part, which drive 
me to specific conclusions. . . . Oh, I really hesitate to do 
what you ask of me ! . . . But as an example : sudden faint- 
nesses may mean nothing at all ; repeated, they may mean 
nothing at all ; but repeated several times, and always on 
the same occasion, they are more likely than not to be signifi- 
cant, you know.” 

The next moment she had amazed herself. She knew that 
he spoke of her faintness on the night of Lady Haverford’s 
dance ; and all that had passed there rose, made whole and 
perfected now, before her. Keigwyn, Keigwyn’s unnamed 
chance acquaintance, Neill, the first mention of Lionel Finch- 
Ommaney’s name — her descent with Bartholomew into the 
supper room for the purpose of pumping liim — that un- 
licensed talk of Harry of which he had made such adroit use 
— Lionel, and the words, written now in flame on her brain, 
“ you liked the other one too ” . . . she saw it all spread out 
with the clarity and the absurd simplicity of the puzzle that 
is made plain. That central stillness of her mind, the stillness 
of the sleeping top, still held ; that Familiar that she had 
called at one time her Defensiveness, at another her Pride, 
always anything but her Conscience, seemed to await breath- 
lessly the words that might fall in that strangely remote voice 
from her lips ; and then there sprang out the unplanned, 
undreamed of, useless, incredible, impossible, pathetically 
ridiculous lie. 

“You mean my faintness at Lady Haverford’s ? ” 

“You may have had it elsewhere too. ...” 

“ And you spoke of your powers of observation ? ” 

“ I did say something of the kind.” 

“ You are a man of experience — a man of the world ? ” 

He felt that he was being mocked. “ Come,” he said im- 
patiently. 


LONDON 


231 


She laughed horribly. 

“ Observation . . . certain powers of observation. . . . 
yes, I had a faintness — I was married last September.” 

A man with a stone heart might have pitied and spared her 
after that ; the preposterousness of her hope of anything 
from it might have moved the very trees ; but no ruth dwelt 
in those stews of his breast. Though heartstrings cracked 
and flew like the gut of an instrument, he must be galvanized 
to his sensation. And he had it now. It was stupendous. 
Mettle he had known her to be ; but this mad effrontery, 
this transparent audacity ! ... He marvelled. 

“ God, but you’ve nerve ! ” he insulted her with his ad- 
miration. He repeated it : “ God, but you’ve nerve ! ” 

He was all unconscious that that ice in her eyes could sear. 

“ And God ! . . . What luck he was in ! ” he breathed 

enviously. . . . 

For one moment longer that frightful calm held her. 

“ He will be glad to hear it. I will tell him.” 

He stepped back to look at her. 

“ Him ! . . . You think I mean . . . ? ” 

There was no need to mention either Harry’s name or 
the other’s ; for all at once her calm broke. As lamps might 
shine into lamps, their eyes gave, took. From the bottom 
of hers he fetched up for his handling the poor, naked, vio- 
lated truth ; and down, down, down in the depths of his 
the cad leered up at her out of the slime. He laughed. . . . 

But suddenly he seized her wrist. He broke into rapid, 
arrogant speech. 

“ He was your lover — I dare you to deny it ! Look at me 
— I dare you to deny it ! . . . God, but I hope he was worth 
it, your Lionel ! — you’re magnificent — magnificent ! I love 
you — I adore you ! What do I care what sort of a blockhead 
you’ve tied yourself to ! Let him look after himself ! The 
past — the future — what do they matter ! We’ve got this 
wonderful present ! ... You know that where he can touch 
you at one point I’m yourself, your very self, at twenty ! 
You are loving me now — darling ! — you’re loving me now — 
I dare you to resist me ! ” 

He never dreamed how far she now was from the thing he 


232 THE EXCEPTION 

said. If for the moment she did not speak it was that she 
was once more appalled to think where she might, but for 
this, have stood. 

“You love me, you love me ! ” he cried, abysmally drowned 
in his egotism. “ You daren’t deny it — you daren't lie to 
yourself so ! Come away with me — you’re coming — coming 
away from this damned frigid England to a place where men 
and women can love as they were meant to love ! I know of 
places — there’s sun and sky and joy and laughter there — 
they sing Carpe Diem there — come, come — now — as you 
stand ! Come ! . . . Then we’ll live — live and love ! . . . 
God above, how I hate England ! . . . Come with me — I’ve 
a thousand loves for you — you don’t know — you’ll never 
know unless you come ” 

Oh, the dreary flogging of that tired nag that had borne 
him through his youth ! In that moment he almost believed 
that he wanted more of her than to be able to say that she had 
yielded. His prodigious vanity blinded him to the look that 
had slowly overspread her face. She seemed to be listening 
to a far-off echo ... an echo of the crudities of the novel- 
box that would have mortified him had he known of it ! . . . 

“ You’ll come — you’ll come now — we’ll do one beautiful 
and romantic thing if we never did one before ! That opinion- 
ated fool ! . . . Oh, I’ll teach you what love is — I’ll teach 
you ! If it lasted only a day and I died the next I’d do it — I’d 
do it ! Come, you woman made for me — let’s run — run ! ’’ 

He flung out his arms. 

His touch on her flesh broke the spell. She sprang back- 
wards, overturning her chair ; she shuddered as if she had 
touched the exuding bosses of a toad. Again she was quiet, 
but her quietness now was not that former fearful stillness 
of the storm-centre. She saw how old, old and drained he 
was. . . . 

She spoke in a low and shaking voice. 

“ I was warned of things like you — in my thoughts — long 
ago ” 

The words came f ragmen tarily out, as if she was in the 
grasp of something that shook her bodily. He had lost the 
throw — even he saw it — his vanity was so split and cloven. . . . 


LONDON 


233 

“ I see now. I’ve had to see to know. They told me, but 
I refused to be told ” 

He watched her with sudden vindictiveness under half- 
closed lids. 

“ I don’t know where I can hide myself. I abhor myself. 
What is it that’s made me so vile, I wonder ? ” 

Still he watched her. . . . 

“I see now. You thought that what had happened once 
would happen twice. I see. I knew there were men like you, 
but I’d never been so close to one ” 

He opened his lips. He still tried to sting — to sting her, 
now so far beyond his power to hurt. “ Never ? ...” he 
said, with the old smile. 

“ Never. Oh, you can’t heap any shame on me more than 
I can on myself. I’ll go and pray, for both of us.” 

“ Religious ? . . .” he spat again. 

“ I don’t think it’s that. It’s merely that if you may 
know, anybody may. — Don’t follow me.” 

“ To confession ? . . .” 

“ To my husband.” 

“ To teh him all this ? ” 

“ Ah, no, not this. ...” 

“ What, will you conceal from him that you’ve disobeyed 
him and seen me? ” 

“ No,” she replied mournfully. 

“No? . . . But you said ‘ not this ’ ” 

“ Not this . . . nor anything else. I’ll no longer conceal 
anything.” 

“ ‘Anything ? ’ . . . What can you be talking about ? 
This is very odd. You’ll no longer conceal ” 

“ Anything whatever. As I say, if you may know anybody 
may know. I’ve finished with it now — or shall have presently.” 

She had entirely forgotten that Bartholomew was still 
ignorant of the most delectable bit of it all. . . . 

He stared. ‘ No longer conceal anything— finished with it 
— if you may know anybody may know.’ . . . What could 
she mean ? Was there something else ? He had merely 
asked her whether she was going to tell her husband of this 
meeting : ‘Ah, no, not this ,* she had said ; and had gone on 


THE EXCEPTION 


234 

to speak as if this was a trifle by comparison with something 
else. . . . What else ? Surely not 

A surmise of such beauty flashed across Bartholomew’s 
brain that involuntarily he took a step back and drew in 
his breath with a gasp. . . . 

What ! That egregious ass of a husband didn’t know — 
didn't know ! She had actually married him without telling 
him — or without telling him more than that thin tale with 
which she had tried to hoodwink himself ! . . . Bartholomew 
had assumed that the husband knew all about her Lionel, 
condoned, and had married her in tameness and docility 
and a closing of the eyes to the slight crack in a piece other- 
wise of such high and signal rarity. . . . 

Oh, it was huge — rich — huge and rich almost past belief. 
He shook with the laughter he tried to suppress. . . . 

Then, after a vain search for adequate words, he gave the 
tremendous thing its only fitting tribute — the tribute of a 
simple comment. 

“ And how,” he said presently, “ how, as I said before, 
do you suppose he’ll take it, with those hidebound principles 
of his ? ” 

She hung her head sadly. 

“ I don’t know. If he’ll let me go on living he’ll be bounti- 
ful to me. But I’m not thinking of myself. . . .” 

“ H’m ! ” Bartholomew remarked. ...” H’m ! ” he said 
again, licking his lips ; and then he broke out, enviously, 
covetously, almost with tears of vexation at the unattain- 
ableness of it : 

“ By Jove ! I should like to be there ! ” 

It was true. He would have liked it exceedingly. The 
scene when she should at last tell her husband ought to 
provide such a thrill as even he had never experienced. And 
he could not be there. . . . 


XXI 


H ARRY was not in his room when she reached home. 
She rang. 

“ Hasn’t Mr. Emney come in yet ? ” she asked. 

“Yes, ma’am, but he’s gone out again. He left a letter 
for you in the dining-room.” 

“ Bring it, please — but no ; never mind ; I’m going down.” 
She descended. The letter lay on the table. She tore it 
open and read it. It said that he had gone away until the 
Saturday night. 

And the day was Wednesday. 

It was always useless to attempt to read between the lines 
of Harry’s letters. It was his style to state things and leave 
them. In the letter that fell from Berice’s hand he asked to 
be excused for not having given her longer notice of this visit 
to a fellow-director, but the necessity had arisen suddenly, 
and their relations for a week had not, unhappily, been of 
such a nature that discussion of his movements would have 
been profitable. It was not likely that he would be detained 
later than Saturday, and he suggested that she might care to 
ask Emily Tracy to spend a day or two with her. He re- 
mained her affectionate husband, Harry. 

She stood gazing at the letter on the table. Three days 
, . . she must wait three days. . . . 

She gave a half-delirious laugh, and moved blunderingly 
to a sofa. 

The effort for which she had gathered and steeled herself 
had been expended on the empty air, and her whole nature 
was for the moment overbalanced. All the force of the 
stroke had recoiled upon herself. It was impossible to write 
to him ; the thing was not capable of being written ; she 

235 


236 THE EXCEPTION 

could only wait. The thought of waiting was now the one 
thing on earth that appalled her ; yet it had come, like a 
blow between the eyes, and she must wait. Again she gave 
that lost, piteous laugh. She knew that in three days the 
news would have become so old and stale to herself that she 
would almost expect Harry to know all about it. . . . 

It might as well have been three years. . . . 

Well, she would have plenty of time to think things over 

Three days ! . . . 

She closed her eyes in an effort to think calmly. ... It 
was curious, a little frightful, that things should persist in 
their results for so long. She hardly comprehended how 
people dared to live lives in which one false step determined 
with such terrible fatality the whole course of the journey 
that followed. Was it worth while to try to live such a life ? 
Would it not be better, given a fellow-stumbler of a nature 
not more rootedly wicked than one’s own, to do as it had been 
proposed to her an hour before — cease to struggle, let the 
whole law go with the broken part of it, and fly to a clime 
where responsibility for actions did not make of Life a per- 
petual threatening and gloom ? Or why go on living at all ? 
Why could not people achieve one hour of happiness and 
die in it ? And if they could not, why be born ? What, 
what was the use ? . . . 

Well, she had three days in which to think these and 
similar things over. She caught herself in the act of me- 
chanically looking at the clock. Half an hour of those three 
days had already gone. . . . 

It was by the very transport of her pain that she did not 
yet clearly remember the details of what had passed an 
hour and a half before. Harry’s letter had again whipped 
up her flagging mind to something of that steadiness of the 
sleeping top that had held her so strangely calm when the 
man she had just left had twitched that last veil aside, and 
she knew that the wobbling would come again presently. 
No good anticipating that wobbling ; its hour would come 
cruelly soon ; it would be far better to close her eyes and try 
to sleep away a portion of those three days. . . . 

She did try, and was not conscious of the falling evening 


LONDON 


237 

nor of the maid who entered and stood just within the door, 
not knowing whether to wake her. The maid decided to 
wake her. She switched on the electric light, and then 
apologized for the disturbance. Berice yawned drowsily. 

“ You can take dinner up to my room,” she said. “ Mr. 
Emney will not be here. Take it all up at once, and don't 
disturb me unless I ring.— Yes, leave the light on here.” 

The maid withdrew, and Berice rose. There was a large 
gilt mirror over the sideboard, and she crossed to it and 
looked at herself, standing before it until she had forgotten 
again to look at her own image in it. Then she walked the 
length of the room and back, trailing her hand along the 
backs of the chairs pushed up under the table ; and then she 
stood gazing down at the laid but unlighted fire. She was 
entirely aimless in all her movements, and she stood gazing 
into the fireplace merely until enough volition should have 
accumulated within her to turn her away again. . . . 

Presently she walked to the door, switched off the light, 
and went up to her own room. 

It was there, half an hour later, that she began to remember 
recent events, and to feel white and sick. The memories 
came bit by bit. First a phrase came ; then its context 
started up ; and then scene flowed into scene as if she had 
been looking at a series of dissolving views. ... By and by 
she had run through the whole hideous gallery. In one 
picture, one of the earlier ones, he — that man — was speaking 
of Love and Truth and Honour — not to her, but to her 
husband, yet for her ears ; another, still an early one, was — 
must even then have been — a frightful hypocrisy of respect 
to herself, the libertine’s deadliest wile (this had been as he 
had helped her into a cab on the first occasion on which they 
had been out alone together) ; another was that terrible 
false earnestness he was able to put into his voice ; another 
the first time he had used that insufferably taunting smile ; 
and so on, up to the final outpouring of garbage. . . . That 
he might get her to lay herself the more open — she had not 
hitherto been conscious of possessing the fact of which this 
was a memory — he had even tried to make her drunk at 
Lady Haverford’s house . . . vile, vile ! . . . 


238 THE EXCEPTION 

And then there rang again in her ears those words of his : 
“ And how do you think he’ 11 take it, with those hidebound 
principles? . . 

How would he take it ? That was a question she hadn’t 
faced yet ! . . . 

Bleakly, bitterly, of course. For whatever she had thought 
at the time, eight or nine months before, or with whatever 
sophistries she had since sought to lull the uneasy, accusing 
spirit within her, she no longer claimed that he knew. He 
did not know, he had never known, and she knew he had not 
known and that it was impossible that he should have known. 
— And so no more of that / was her tortured cry to herself. 

. . . And now, when she did tell him, he would take it naked 
and sobbingly — perhaps with a shriek and a curse. Men 
with principles did take things bitterly ; the others, the un- 
principled, were the lucky ones. Bartholomew, for instance, 
beyond his personal chagrin and that mortifying stroke to 
his vanity, had in all probability not a care in the world ; 
the Bartholomews are paid for, franked through life ; and 
the Emneys settle the account with the dearest drops of their 
hearts. Limited as it was — she did not now think of its 
limitations — Harry had a standard from which to derogate. 
How would he take it ? . . . 

But even as she wondered, the old insidious spirit of con- 
cealment whispered to her again. Need he take it at all ? 
Was he not happier remaining in ignorance of even so small 
a fraction of it as the events of that afternoon ? And if he 
could not bear the lesser pang, how should he bear the 
greater ? Had she the right to inflict this ruthless blow unless 
the starkest necessity demanded it ? . . . But instantly she 
thrust the temptation aside. The starkest necessity had 
arisen. Already she had dishonoured him sufficiently. It 
was still a dream to her how she had been capable of dis- 
honouring him so ; but that was all, all over now. He must 
know. It was his destiny, as apparently it was hers to thrust 
the knife into him. She groaned. . . . 

Oh, what spite against herself had sent him away for three 
days, now? . . . 

But — her thoughts ranged within her like wild things in a 


LONDON 


239 

cage, one moment shaking the bars at this end, the next at 
that — would he be dishonoured if he did not know he was 
dishonoured ? And would he know that lie was dishonoured ? 
She knew his slowness of perception. It was of no use pre- 
tending that he was not in many respects thick-skinned. 
Things that would have set her writhing he barely turned his 
head at, and perhaps it would take a finer-grained mind than 
his even to be aware that he was paying for the sins and 
errors of others. In that case, again, why trouble his equa- 
nimity ? If he did not know that he lost anything, why, 
then, he actually did not lose anything. Why bring the loss 
home to him by telling him of it ? . ♦ . 

And what , after all, was she to tell him ? she asked her- 
self, as if she had not asked herself the same question a 
minute before. Merely of what had been offered her that 
afternoon ? It was surely not necessary ! . . . That he was 
right about Bartholomew, and she wrong ? That also could 
be told without a scene. . . . That other that she had kept 
close-smothered for so long ? . . . Why tell him that fo-day, 
more than yesterday, or to-morrow ? Nothing had occurred 
to alter that ; that was entirely independent of any action of 
Bartholomew’s ; it was only her conscience that made her 
lump all together and prevented her from destroying it all in 
detail. . . . And for the rest, since she intended hence- 
forward to observe his slightest wish, and to be the pattern 
of wives to him, why tell him anything ? . . . For she had 
no desire now to live her own life. To live that joint life 
with her husband, to be guided, checked when occasion 
arose, warned when her feet showed a disposition to stray, 
was now the dearest of her wishes. 

The next moment she had panted out aloud that if ever 
she was to hold her head up again she must, must tell him. . . . 

Then again temptation took the subtle form of the wish 
to spare Harry. A voice whispered cajolingly in her ear, 
counselling plain common sense. “ Be sensible,” it whis- 
pered ; “ say nothing ; you know how fearfully hard he’ll 
take it ; you’ll kill him — kill him. . . .” 

And yet again she cried that she must tell him, on his 
return, three days hence. . . . 


THE EXCEPTION 


240 

Was it to her honour that she fought as if for her life with 
this temptation ? Perhaps ; and yet there were other con- 
siderations than honour. He might, for instance, find out 
for himself — how, she didn’t know ; but then she hadn’t 
known how Bartholomew had got at her secret, nor, in his 
different way, how Neill had come so near to it as he had 
done. ... Or he might be told ; again she didn’t know 
how, nor by whom ; but there were so many things now she 
knew she didn’t know. She had been living on a humiliating 
sufferance. But for manhood, Bunny might have given her 
away ; but for gentleness and honour of her, Neill might 
have betrayed her ; and, manhood and gentleness and 
honour notwithstanding, Bartholomew, or for all she knew 
this other man, Keigwyn, had but a word to speak and — pff ! 
all would be about her ears. Yes, she had spoken the truth 
to Bartholomew ; if he might know, anybody might know. 
She had meant the words in a rather different sense, but 
either sense would do. She knew of nothing in Bartholo- 
mew’s code of empty or privately interpreted words that 
could prevent his picking a benefactor’s pocket even as he 
spoke of gratitude, that could prevent the seduction of a 
friend’s wife with the word honour on his lips. Since the 
man denied everything, his position was unassailable. He 
had only to use a name, and the thing, for him, was so. He 
might betray Berice and call it faithfulness ; why not ? . . . 
Looked at in that way, it was plain policy to pour all out to 
Harry — not a lofty motive, perhaps, but one claiming the 
better interpretation when honour and policy chanced to 
coincide. . . . 

To her honour, then, she rejected the thought of further 
concealment. If he had been there that night she would 
have told him at once. But he had gone away for three 
days. . . . 

Well, she could keep a definite resolution, if not an impulse, 
for three days. She would tell him the moment he got back. 
In the meantime she tried to eat some soup. The rest of 
her dinner she left untouched. . . . 

Of the consequences to herself of telling him she had 
hardly thought. “ If he’ll let me go on living he’ll be boun- 


LONDON 241 

tiful to me. ...” They were her own words, and they re- 
turned to her now. Suppose he should insist on living apart 
from her — in the same house, as they had been for a week, 
or in separate establishments ? What mask would she be 
able to put on, what explanation issue to the world ? Sup- 
pose Everard, thinking her wronged, should take it on him- 
self to act on her behalf ? Suppose Neill, or Sir John Hartopp, 
or anybody else, should accuse her with their unspoken 
sympathy ? With what face would she be able to carry it 
off ? . . . And when she had put on that face, a laughing 
one perhaps, what mocking echoes of honour of her bravery 
would resound in her heart ? . . . Heigh-ho ! There was no 
end to it. All seemed to be closing in about her, and always, 
like dimly-seen, following sharks, two shadows, in an under- 
world of corrupt lives, sunken artists and men who had been 
kicked out of the Army, attended with upturned eyes her 
every movement. . . . 

And then her own eyes grew hard and bright. There had 
leaped into her memory the thought of a morning long ago, 
by the side of a mountain stream, the day after she had 
heard of the death of a young subaltern in India. It had 
seemed to her then that his death had put the seal upon 
many things. Thenceforward (so she had planned it within 
herself) his memory was to have been a sweet and supporting 
thing close at her heart, her standard of loveliness for all 
things pretending to be lovely, fresh, gay and of the day- 
spring. That subaltern’s death was to have been a purifica- 
tion, a setting free . . . yes, that had been the idea. . . . 
She laughed outright, a laugh in which there was no pity for 
herself. Pity ? Away with pity ! When she did tell Harry 
— supposing, that was to say, these three eternal days ever 
passed — there would have to be more of bravado than of 
pity in the telling. Pity was wasted where there was no hope, 
and there was little enough hope in that parable of the twig — 
under at the fall, down the stream, caught in the up current, 
and down again . . . and again . . . and again. . . . 

A clock downstairs struck the hour. Three hours had 
passed since she had entered the house. Three days less 
three hours. ... 

16 


242 THE EXCEPTION 

She rose, rang a bell, had her dinner removed, and un- 
dressed and went to bed. The dawn was in the room and 
cocks were crowing callously before she slept. 

When she awoke, at one o’clock, her mood had again 
changed — for the first few minutes in which she did not 
realize were a respite all too brief. She took up her burden 
again. She took it up once more at the point, How would it 
affect Harry ? . . . 

It seemed to her now that she had dismissed that point 
rather summarily. She had concluded that he would take 
it bitterly, but that it was his destiny, and had left it there. 
But now she saw further. Bitterly, of course, he would take 
it ; any man would take it bitterly ; but he — oh, most, 
most bitterly ! It would go home to his most central and 
vital spot — his sense of possession. A trifling instance that 
bore on the point was still fresh in her memory. Some months 
before he had bought, for a heavy sum, a piece of porcelain 
that he had afterwards discovered to bear a fraudulent mark ; 
and she remembered his face as he had deliberated whether 
he should deal such a blow as should put the flagitious dealer 
out of business once for all, or whether he should spare him. 
In the end he had spared him — but the ‘ sparing ’ had been 
worse than the blow itself. The man had crept out of his 
presence with a soul that henceforward he would hardly 
dare to call his own. . . . Suppose he should break, as it 
were, that fraudulent piece over her head ? Would she be 
able to bear it that he refrained from crushing her entirely ? 
Could she continue to live on such terms ? And what would 
it cost him to bear the Rhadamanthus for ever on his brow ? 
For by as much as he was stricter than other men, by so much 
would the stroke at his principles be the more mortal. She 
knew the kind he was. . . . 

And — this came with an electrifying shock — a dead man 
too — a few bones in a far-off grave ! . . . There was no 
writing a letter to a dead man, no forbidding a dead man the 
house ! Harry’s jealousy of a living intruder had been em- 
bittered enough, but a dead man ... it would be merely 
deathless. He could have killed Bartholomew, or at least 
have refrained after the fashion of his refraining in the case 


LONDON 


243 

of the dealer ; but who can kill the dead ? He would see 
that dead man’s skull grinning at him for ever from its box 
under its six foot of Indian earth — grinning at him, a man 
whom its living eyes had never seen. What, for a man 
capable of such imaginings, would his withholding be but 
an unending accusation and reproach ? What, for him, 
would life thenceforward hold that would be worth the 
living to obtain ? For which of them, for him or for her, 
would the days to come wear the more forbidding aspect ? 
For him, perhaps, since he paid — for her, perhaps, since she 
was paid for 

\ The meditation occupied her until an hour after such lunch 
as she could eat, and then there came a revulsion, a longing 
almost insupportable to get away from it all. It was that 
yearning she had felt before, to have done with these terrible 
men and to fly to one of her own sex. Only yesterday she had 
called on Mrs. Enright ; she felt that she must call again 
to-day — it would at least be the putting away of another 
day of those leaden-footed three. . . . But she would not 
walk to Mrs. Enright’s — ah, no, she would not walk ! — she 
would take a cab every inch of the way there and back. She 
knew what happened when women walked ; men lay in wait 
in the Gardens, suddenly raising their hats at their sides and 
presently crying to them, “ He was your lover — I dare you 
to deny it — look me in the face and deny it ! . . She hated 
men. Their kisses shrivelled women’s lips, their whispers 
were horrible in women’s ears, and the very way in which 
they looked made women burn under their garments. Such 
of them as did not hunt for the mere sport of tracking women 
down mangled them and broke them on the wheel of their 
pitiless justice. She dreaded them. Their bodies affrighted 
her ; their law and their lawlessness alike were granite which 
women strove to fret into channels with their tears. Women 
for women when they have bruised themselves against men ; 
she would go to Mollie Enright again. She, too, had been 
bruised ; she, too, had been spared nothing ; she under- 
stood. . . . 

Her cab set her down at Mrs. Enright’s door, and she rang 
the bell at the hour at which she had rung it the day before. 


THE EXCEPTION 


244 

Mrs. Enright was at home, and had, moreover, a pleasant 
surprise for Berice — a friend of hers. . . . 

Berice found herself shaking hands with Bunny. 

She hardly knew what she said to Mollie Enright in ex- 
planation of her second call, except that her husband had 
been unexpectedly called away. 

“ Lords of the earth they are ! ” Mrs. Enright laughed. 
“ Here Bunny turns up without a word, and yours vanishes ! 
Accountable to nobody for their movements but their own 
stately selves. . . .” 

Berice was wondering whether, as of old, Bunny would 
take himself off now that she had appeared. He did, within 
ten barely decent minutes, mumbling as he took her hand 
some phrase about her happiness. He went out, and Mrs. 
Enright closed the door behind him. 

“ How lucky you were just to catch him ! ” she said. “ I 
expect he’s gone round to Murragh’s studio now. ... You 
look tired, dear ; let me ring for some fresh tea ” 

“ What,” Berice asked presently, “ are you doing this 
evening ? ” 

“ Accounts,” Mrs. Enright answered promptly. “ Those 
two men said something about going to a music-hall, so I’m 
deserted.” 

“ May I stay with you ? ” 

“ My dear ! Of course you may.” 

“ Thank you,” Berice murmured. 

Mrs. Enright crossed to the sofa and sat down by her side. 

“ Don’t talk,” she said gently. . . . 

There was gratitude in Berice’s heart that Mollie, seeing 
something was wrong, did not pretend not to see, made no 
false attempt to be gay, said nothing playful about absent 
husbands and recent marriages. Instead, she took Berice’s 
hat and veil off, gave her hot tea, and talked about im- 
material things ; and Berice divined, without knowing how, 
that Bunny as well as Neill had spoken to Mollie about her, 
and that Mollie knew that Bunny loved her. . . . And 
already Berice was meditating the only boon she would ask 
when, on the next day but one, she should submit herself to 
Harry’s judgment. It was that she might be permitted to 


LONDON 


245 

unbosom herself to the woman at her side. But Harry 
first. . . . 

They talked until dinner-time, and then dined ; and then 
Mrs. Enright asked her whether she could not stay for the 
night. 

“ We’re both alone, and we could easily send a message,” 
she said. 

But Berice answered that she must be at her post. . . . 

“ Very well ; I won’t press you.” 

“ And thank you so very much for having let me come.” 

“ Poor girl ! ” said Mrs. Enright, stroking her hand. . . . 

Berice took the remark, and the unquestioning look of 
acceptance and trust which accompanied it, as a matter of 
course. 

She reached home again at ten. A day had gone. Not 
counting the odd hours of Wednesday, a third of the time 
had gone. Another day and a night, and the day on which 
Harry would return would have dawned. . . . 

Thursday came. The clocks crawled through the day. 
Night fell, and with its falling there occurred that which 
Berice had foreseen. So dull and stale had all become that 
it was a familiar thing, to be taken for granted, by Harry as 
much as by herself. Too much thought had overshot its 
mark. She was petulant, fretful, impatient again. And 
again, as she lay on her bed in the darkness, the Devil whis- 
pered to her. This was on the Friday night. 

“ Leave a bad business alone,” the Devil urged. “ Make 
up your present quarrel with him, submit yourself for the 
future, and say nothing about the past. The milk’s spilt ; 
don’t break his heart as well as your own. I tell you you’ll 
almost kill him, and he won’t be able to help killing you 
piecemeal. You know what he is . . . Don’t be a fool. Pull 
yourself together. A little courage, a little hardening are all 
that is required — you’ve been magnificent before — be so 
again — leave it alone, leave it alone, leave it alone ” 

And from her bed, as she accepted the Devil’s advice 
and steeled herself to say nothing, she cried aloud in 
anguish : 

“ Oh, Harry — 1 cannot, cannot, cannot tell you ! ” 


246 THE EXCEPTION 

She blessed the soft and fluty voice that saved her — that 
saved her from herself. It was Saturday morning, and house- 
maids were washing steps and polishing brasses outside. It 
was a strange instrument that God chose to employ from 
out of His machine. . . . 

He made no demand this time. Whatever he got would 
be given him without stipulation. If of her bounty she liked 
to pay his passage out to Canada, that he might start life 
afresh. . . . 

She looked at the old letter in her own handwriting, and 
again blessed the man who brought it. The Devil might 
whisper now ; it didn’t matter ; she was secure. 

“ There are no others,” he said. 

“ It wouldn’t matter,” she replied. . . . 

That the choice was taken out of her hands she blessed 
him. She almost uttered words of thanks. 

“ I needed this,” she said, her eyes again on the letter in 
her hand. 

“ Yes,” he said. 

She gave a faint smile. 

“ Oh, not in the way you think. ... I needed it because 
he wouldn’t have believed me without it.” 

“ There are no others,” Walker murmured again. 

She gave him the same answer. “It wouldn’t matter. 
One will do, as evidence, in case he doesn’t believe me. — 
When do you sail ? ” 

“In a week. You may book my passage yourself if — if 
you’re afraid I shan’t go ” 

“ No, do as you like. If you will wait here ” 

Why should she despise him — why judge him at all ? She 
was paying in money only ; she was about to be paid for 
presently in tears and blood. . . . 

Five minutes later a housemaid moved a bucket to allow 
him to pass down the steps. 

At half-past five that evening she heard the stopping of a 
cab, Harry’s key in the latch, and then his slight, hard* 
obstinate cough in the hall. 


XXII 


S HE allowed him, and herself, twenty minutes ; then, 
with the letter which she had received from Walker in 
her hand, she tapped at his door. 

“ Come in,” he called. 

She entered, and, as she drew the door to behind her, felt 
that she was cutting herself off from all assistance save that 
which she might find in her own soul. 

His small kit-bag lay half unpacked on the bed, and he 
had just washed the dust of his journey from his hands and 
face. His face was in a towel as she entered. The trifling 
circumstance fell unhappily. Eager to be reconciled with 
her, he had intended to advance at once and to kiss 
her. Their week of estrangement was over, if she would 
consider it so. 

“Ah, darling ! ” he said, tossing the towel aside and ad- 
vancing, “ I was coming to your room in one moment ” 

With her back firmly against the door she made a slight 
gesture with her hand — a gesture that asked him to keep 
away from her. He gave a little laugh, and shook his head 
fondly. 

“ Eh ? What’s that ? . . . Oh, that’s all past, darling ; 
I’ve forgotten all that if you have. I was very, very much 
annoyed : I spoke hastily ; forgive me, and forget it. You 

got the letter I left ? I was sorry to go like that, darling ” 

He had taken a step nearer. She only repeated the repel- 
ling gesture. 

“ What ? ” he laughed. . . . “ Rubbish ! We’ll both 
forget all about that nonsense. . . . Why, my dearest, what’s 
the matter ? Has my girl been fretting ? What a brute I 

was not to write ! But I thought ” 

247 


248 THE EXCEPTION 

She moistened her lips. “ Harry ” she began, but he 

interrupted her. 

" I was a brute ! I might have written — I would have if 
I’d thought you’d be as upset as this. . . . But I’m no letter- 
writer, and I admit — it’s past now, so that we can speak 
about it — I admit that for a day or so I was resentful. After 
that I thought I’d just wait — let you come round — it was 
stupid of me. . . . And haven’t you even got a welcome 
for me ? ” 

She had, of a sort. He was standing before her, and the 
door prevented her from shrinking farther back. His arms 
were extended — she noticed the thin wrists within the turned- 
back cuffs. 

" Don’t touch me, please, Harry,” she muttered quickly, 
as he made another movement. 

But he only assumed a headstrong jocularity. "Not 
touch you ? . . . Fiddlesticks ! Kiss your husband at once, 
when he. tells you ! ” 

But she cried again, sharply, " Don’t touch me, Harry.” 
He fell a little back. 

" Why, what ails you, dear ? ” he cried. " You’re surely 
not still remembering. . . . Come, Berice ; I’ve begged 
your pardon ; I do so unreservedly ; don’t be so odd about 
it ” 

She moistened her lips again. "I’ve something to say to 
you at once. But please first go a little further away.” 

Slowly he retired. Mechanically he fastened his cuff-links, 
and then took up his coat and began to put it on. " You’re 
very odd, dear,” he said. " What is it you have to say ? 
Please say it, and then we’ll go on.” 

He meant, " Say it, and then come and kiss your husband,” 
and she wondered whether he would wish to kiss her when 
she had said it. His eyes were on hers ; she could almost 
mark the little slow processes by which a mistrust was being 
born. She kept her station at the door. 

She began again. "I’ve something very important to 
say to you, at once. It — it affects you. When — when 
you’ve heard it I — I place myself unreservedly in your 
hands.” 


LONDON 


249 

“ Oh ? ” he said, still watching her. . . . “ Well, better 
say it, whatever it is.” 

Again her dry lips worked, and she could not keep her 
eyes in one place. 

“ At first,” she went on with increasing difficulty, “ I — 
I wasn’t going to tell you. Half a dozen times I wasn’t going 
to tell you. But now — oh, I can’t live another day unless 
I do ! ” 

“ Oh ? . . . Well ? ” His eyes were now unwinking. 

“ I must — I must tell you — and yet God only knows how 
I shall ! I’ve tried to pray ” 

At her last words his tall, poplar-like figure seemed to 
stiffen a little. He frowned. “ To pray ? ” he said. . . . 
“ About what ? ” 

“ Oh, for strength ! ” it came out. “ No, not for strength 
neither — for a little help in my weakness ! ” Her hands 
were making little pathetic movements against the panels of 
the door behind her. 

His brow had swiftly gathered at a thought. “ Berice ” 

he said heavily. 

“ Harry ” she began at the same moment. 

“I’m listening. ...” 

“ Harry ” 

But now that the moment had arrived it refused to come 
out. He waited through a long silence, his frown slowly 
deepening and his look gathering a rigour ; then, as she still 
remained dumb, he took matters into his own hands. 

“ This appears to be serious,” he said slowly. “ You say 
you’ve something to say, something important, and still 
you don’t say it. And you say it affects me. Be so good as 
to answer me a question. Does it affect me as — as your 
husband ? ” 

“ I’m afraid, Harry 

“ Please answer without equivocation.” 

Her head dropped. “ Yes,” she breathed. 

“ A-h ! ” His voice shook three distinct times on the 

monosyllable. . . . “ Well, I’m waiting,” he informed her 
presently. . . . 

But he was still waiting at the end of another half-minute. 


250 THE EXCEPTION 

Then slowly he drew up a chair, took up his trousers at the 
knees, and sat down. She still stood with fallen head at the 
door. There seemed a fitness in their respective attitudes. 

“ Well, I’m waiting . . he said again presently. 

Again she could get no further than his name — “ Harry ! ” 
It became plain to him that if he was to have it out of her, 
whatever it was, he must dig it out. He sat slowly upright 
in his chair. 

“You say,” he said with deliberation, “ that what you 
have to say affects me in my relation to you. Things have 
happened in the past, not very long ago, that I came back 
quite prepared to forget ; and this is my reception. You 
also mention praying. I confess you make me afraid — you 
make me afraid. . . . Will you please, before we go any 
further, tell me how you have spent the last three days ? ” 

Her groan had escaped her before she could muster an effort 
to suppress it. “ Oh, God, in an agony ! ” it broke from her. 

He drew out his handkerchief, half raised it to his brow, 
and then put it back into his pocket again. 

“ So ? ” he said heavily. . . . “I’m inclined to believe 
you. I’ve only to look at you to believe you. . . . Will you 
go on ? ” 

But she could not, and again he stiffened in his chair. 

“ Well, if we’re reduced to catechizing, it must be so. I 
said you made me afraid. I will tell you what it is you make 
me afraid of. Have you done something that I expressly 
forbade you to do ? ” 

It flashed on her what he meant ; she had forgotten that 
smaller thing. She checked the cry of affright that rose to 
her lips, and her head knocked against the door with her 
sharp throw up of it. 

“ No, no, no ! ” she cried. 

The flame was kindling in his eyes. 

“ No ? ... I wouldn’t say that, Berice,” he admonished. 
Then his accusation rang out as sharply as if iron had been 
smitten. “ You’ve seen him ! ” 

“No, no — yes, yes, yes ! — but ” 

“ A-a-a-h ! ” Again there was that beat and shake in the 
monosyllable. “You have ? . . .” 


LONDON 


251 


“ Oh, Harry, listen to me ! ” she implored wildly. 

The slight abating of that rage in his eyes was hardly less 
ominous than the rage itself. “ Yes, I’ll listen to you,” he 
said in a smothered voice, “I’ll listen to you. You’ve seen 
him, against my express orders — I don’t say wishes now. . . . 
Well ? ” 

“ It was an accident, oh, it was an accident ! ” she cried. 
“ I wasn’t even thinking of him ! I was thinking. ... I was 
coming across the Park, and met him ” 

He rose from his chair. 

“ The Park. You were coming across the Park and you 
met him. That was in public. Now look at me — look at 
me, I say. Have you seen him in private — is that what you 
mean ? ” 

“Not for an instant ! ” she almost shrieked. 

“ No again ? . . . You have ! ” he cried, glaring. “ You 
have, and you’ve the decency left not to kiss me. Thank 
you for that ! ” 

“ No, no, no ! ” she shrieked again. “ It’s nothing — what 
I have to tell you — it’s nothing, nothing, nothing to do with 
that — with him ! ” 

There it was on his brow, the Rhadamanthus she had 
feared. His eyes probed her unsparingly. . . . 

“ Well,” he said slowly at last, “ say I believe you. Say 
for the moment I believe you. It has nothing whatever to 
do with him, you say. It has to do with somebody. Who 
has it to do with ? ” 

Again at the starting-point, she stood silent and gulping. 
He continued to watch her, to note her low-roving eyes and 
the working of her throat as she swallowed. 

Then Emney took a resolve. Though she'should not speak 
for an hour, she should speak without any further assistance 
from him. He drew the chair to him again and resumed 
his seat. 

It was some minutes before she began again, in a low voice. 

“ When I married you, Harry — that day I promised to 
marry you — something was spoken of that I insisted on 
calling a bargain.” 

He nodded, but did not speak. She gulped again. 


THE EXCEPTION 


252 

“ It was a bargain,” she faltered. 

“ It was,” he slipped significantly into her pause. . . . 

“ You said you loved me,” she continued, “ and I — I ad- 
vised you to leave me alone ” 

He didn’t say the words, but his look told her that were 
she to advise him so again she might do so with better success. 

“ I told you about myself — about myself — you remem- 
ber . . .” 

" Well ? ” 

“ — and that I’d loved somebody else, and that you — 
you took the risk of that . . . and you said you were willing 
to take it — and you did take it — you took it ” 

“ Well ? ” 

Her fists, her teeth, her very eyelids were clenched. 

“ He was my lover,” she muttered. . . . 

He had placed his fingers tip to tip. “ So you said at the 
time,” he remarked across them. 

But her arms shot quickly out. Her head rocked wildly 
from side to side. A few minutes before she had cried “No, 
no ! ” as a denial ; she now cried it as an affirmation. 

“ No, no ! You didn’t understand ! I don’t think you 
understood ! I thought then that you did, but now ” 

“ Now ? . . .” he said, separating the finger tips and 
leaning slightly forward. 

“Now I know you didn’t understand ! My lover — my 
lover — take the word in any sense you like, only for pity’s 
sake say you understand / ” 

The bed was three paces from her. She put out one foot, 
followed it clumsily with the other, and fell face downwards 
across the coverlet, her arms outspread. 

He did not move. He had not yet realized. That thunder- 
ous mood of judgment in him had acquired a momentum of 
its own that still ran on for a moment automatically. Under 
the influence of that momentum he spoke once more. 

“ Yes — you told me that — you said, if I remember rightly 

>> 

It was then, in the middle of his sentence, that the mo- 
mentum failed, as if some brake had been applied. Every 
working member of his mind was brought up standing. One 


LONDON 


253 

more unmeasurable gap of time passed ; he sat braced and 
stiffened as something, he knew not what, seemed to be 
rushing towards him ; and then, with a sound that was half 
a sob, half a cough, wholly ghastly, he took the entire know- 
ledge into his soul. . . . 

At last, at last, it was done ! The rotten branch that had 
dammed the stream of her life was now removed. . . . 

He sat motionless in his chair ; she lay motionless on the 
bed ; not the sound of a breath came from either. . . . 
Minutes passed, and still neither moved. . . . Then she 
turned her head a little on the quilt, and saw him. . . . 

She knew not what it was that immediately put into her 
head the thought of the revolver that lay in the drawer in 
the adjoining dressing-room. More minutes passed, and again 
she stole a look at his face. Their eyes, as she turned hers, 
met, but his seemed to be quite unseeing. There was no 
need for her to move a little out of the way of that fixed, 
annihilated stare, but move she did. Those hard corneas of 
his did not alter by a fraction their line of direction. She 
wondered whether they would even be conscious of light or 
darkness. . . . 

And it was for him to speak now, not her. She had said 
all she had to say. . . . 

Again the minutes slipped away. 

At last he did speak — she knew not after how many min- 
utes of silence this was. His voice might have come from 
an artificial, galvanized man ; it was difficult to believe that 
the sound that reached her ears was produced by lips and 
tongue and lungs of flesh. 

“ Why do you tell me this . . . now ? ” the low sound 
came. 

Then the sound was lost in another long silence. . . . 

And she, who had foreacted this scene a hundred times, 
each time with a new and dreadful variant — who had told 
herself that she owed it to herself to tell him — who had 
spoken of his destiny, that he must bear — she, seeing him 
like this, wondered why she had told him . . . now. He 
was a sight to turn away the eyes from. She could only 
hope that, like the wretch broken on the wheel, he might be 


254 THE EXCEPTION 

so shattered by the first stroke that he could laugh at those 
that followed. . . . 

But the voice had come again. 

“ Why do you tell me this . . . now ? ” it repeated. 
Harry’s eyes still kept their unvarying stare. 

The quilt stifled the voice in which she replied. “ Because 
— because — I couldn’t bear it any more ” 

She wondered whether he would say, “You bear ! ” but 
he didn’t. He said nothing. Mechanically she lifted herself 
on the bed. . . . 

The next moment, without previous intention, she had 
cried out in a loud voice : 

“ Harry ! ” she cried sharply, “ you must kill me ! You 
must let me kill myself! There’s no other end to this ! ” 

He was about to say something, but an attack of coughing 
took him. ... At the end of it he sat making minute move- 
ments with his lips. . . . 

“ Eh ? ” he said, his eyes once more fixed. . . . “Yes. 

. . . No, I mean. . . .” 

Then, slowly, with his weight borne by the hands that 
grasped the arms of his chair, he lifted himself up. Dragging 
his feet after him, he moved towards the glass. Then, as if 
he walked more easily for the practice, he passed to the 
other end of the room. Several times he passed back and 
forth, and then he sat heavily down again. His eyes resumed 
their old attitude. 

But they kept it only for a short time. All at once, and 
for the first time, they met hers with a message in them. 
He drew out his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly ; 
the occupation engrossed him ; and then again his eyes 
rested on hers. She was standing by the bed now. 

He spoke quietly. 

“ That’ll do for to-night,” he said. “ If you’ll wait till 
morning. ... I must think, you see — I must think. . . . 
Yes, if you’ll wait till morning ... in the morning. Don’t 
do anything till then — I heard what you said — I must think. 
That will do for to-night. In the morning ... if ten o’clock 
would be convenient to you . . . we’ll have the rest then.” 

His eyes left her and began to stare as before. They 


LONDON 


255 

did not change as she moved slowly to the door. With the 
open door in her hand she turned once to look at him ; then, 
with the letter she had intended to give him still in her hand, 
crumpled to unrecognizability, she passed out. 

Until ten o’clock in the morning. . . . And then ? 

She went to her own room. 

Well, she thought dully (this was some time later ; at 
first she thought nothing), she was indeed his property now. 
Until ten o’clock in the morning, when she was to see him 
again, her very soul was his. Until he should bid her do so, 
she might not even make away with herself ; her feet might 
not lead her to where the revolver lay in the drawer in his 
dressing-room, her fingers might not turn off and on again 
the tap of a gas. He had condemned her to live until ten 
o’clock in the morning, and live she must. She would rather 
not have lived, but “ Don’t do anything till then — I heard 
what you said,” he had said. . . . Only three days before 
her own cry had been, “If he lets me go on living he’ll be 
bountiful to me ” ; now she thought it would be a bounty 
in him to let her die. ... In the meantime he was paying — 
probably sitting in the same chair with his eyes unchangingly 
before him, thinking, thinking. . . . 

Nor could she pray ; she had not strength to pray. It 
seemed to her that that suspended judgment of his stood 
between her and her God — that even to pray would be, 
somehow, to do something behind his back. She could only 
wait — wait for the striking of ten o’clock to-morrow. . . . 
Possess her ? He possessed her that night as he had never 
possessed her before. Not to be able to destroy herself — 
not to be able to save herself — until ten o’clock in the morn- 
ing . . . yes, that was possession. The very thing he thought 
he had no longer, that he had for the first time ; strange that 
he should possess her only in the moment when he was made 
aware that he had never possessed her ! . . . 

Well, he was paying, sitting there in his chair, coughing 
himself scarlet from time to time and making that minute 
movement of his lips after each attack. She fancied she 
heard his cough as she rose and went into an adjoining room 
for biscuits— for she had neither lunched nor dined that day, 


256 THE EXCEPTION 

and she was faint. She wondered whether he had switched 
the light on, or whether he was paying in the darkness, as 
she was. . . . 

“ As she was ? ” . . . The thought was new to her, new 
and arresting. . . . Was she actually paying a little — con- 
tributing her mite — diminishing her own debt though only 
by ever so little ? The thought came with a little numbing 
shock. . . . And yet, as she grew accustomed to the novelty 
of it, she felt that it was true. She was, actually, dropping 
something into the pardon-box that, whether at ten o’clock 
in the morning he bade her live or die, could not but give 
her something of the precious gift of herself again. She 
could not drop tears yet : tears might come later. For the 
present she could only drop, one by one as they came, the 
sacrifices of the pangs and shudderings and burnings of her 
now unstruggling spirit. ... In ceasing to struggle against 
that divine thing in herself, which she had never totally lost, 
she was paying all that could yet be paid ; but the day, 
though not seen yet, might come when she would owe no 
man nor woman anything. . . . 

She endured, not knowing what she did for herself, through- 
out the night. Day broke greyly, the day on which, live or 
die, her soul was to be made her own. The night had seen 
her De Profundis, and she was no longer entirely at the mercy 
of the accidents and betrayals of Life. She was shivering 
and faint ; she had only partly undressed and drawn the 
coverlet over her ; and she was stiff. But she was hopeful ; 
whether life thenceforward held joy for her or not, it held 
peace ; and she suddenly found herself, she knew not why, 
thinking of Mollie Enright. . . . 

At eight o’clock she rose, dressed, descended, and, letting 
herself quietly out of the house, took a walk along the Em- 
bankment. It was half-past nine when she returned. To 
breakfast was an imperative physical necessity, and her 
meal occupied her until five minutes to ten. It was striking 
ten when she went upstairs again and knocked at the door 
of Harry’s room. 

He, too, had breakfasted ; a small tray with a teapot and 
remains of dry toast lay on a chair by his bedside. He ap- 


LONDON 


257 

peared to have been to bed, but he was up, shaved and dressed, 
and had opened his window, the curtains of which floated 
into the room on the morning breeze. He appeared calm, 
and he placed a chair for her by the window. He himself 
did not sit, but walked about, his hands behind him, his 
head down-hung. There was no morning greeting. 

He looked fixedly at the carpet as he began. 

“ First,” he said, “ I ought to say that I take what you 
told me last night in its most literal sense.” 

“ Thank you,” she murmured hardly audibly. She was 
grateful to him for that. 

“It is in your power,” he resumed, picking his words 
carefully and again pacing the floor, “it is in your power 
to claim that you told me all this before. (No ; I should 
like to say what I have to say before you speak) ... You 
can, as I say, claim that you told me all that before. One’s 
memory isn’t exactly to be depended on to recall everything 
that passes in a moment of stress, and you may make that 
claim. I’ve tried to remember all, every word; of course 
I can’t; but I’ve remembered enough, perhaps, for you to 
warrant you if you like to say that.” 

He paused, and she assumed permission to speak. 

“ I don’t make that claim. If I may tell you the only claim 
I do make ” 

“ Yes.” 

“It is — as you say, it was a moment of stress — it is that 
I had long resolved not to marry anybody without being 
perfectly open, that when you spoke to me I was still quite 
firm about that, and that at the time I believed that as far 
as words could go I had concealed nothing.” 

He had nodded his head once or twice. 

“ Yes, yes. What I remember bears you out perfectly in 
that. . . . Let me say that I have one great anxiety at 
present ; it is to be scrupulously just in all this. I am terribly 
anxious about that. Very well. There’s a question I’m sorry 
to have to ask you, but I’m bound to put it. I’m sure you’ll 
answer me freely. It is, whether you loved him.” 

She hesitated barely an instant. “ I did not,” she said. 
“ I hope I needn’t say that for a little time I thought I did, 
1 7 


THE EXCEPTION 


258 

but that didn’t last long. It lasted, to be precise, four months. 
No, I found I was mistaken in thinking I loved him.” 

He nodded, as if at a point grasped. 

“ And he ? — I don’t ask this because I want to press 
matters, but it is vital.” 

This time she hesitated longer. “ He — is dead,” she said 
slowly. “ That makes it difficult to speak of him. But I 
think — I think — that you may take the same answer. He 
also thought he loved me.” 

“ And discovered he didn’t ? ” 

“ And discovered he didn’t.” 

He had stopped to put his two questions ; he now resumed 
his walk, and spoke with his back towards her and his hands 
behind him. 

“ Then,” he said, “ from my point of view it resolves 
itself into this : whether it is better that there should have 
been love between you, or whether there shouldn’t. You’ll 
see that in some respects it would have been simpler if 
there had been love. In others, perhaps not. I don’t 
know yet.” 

“ I daren’t tell you anything but the truth,” she said 
humbly. “ It was as I have said.” 

“ That you thought you loved one another — as you thought 
you told me certain things that day in Cotterdale ? ” 

. “Yes.” 

“ And you believe now that in both cases you were mis- 
taken ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

He took another turn of the room before speaking again. 

“And — I’m compelled to ask you this too — you don’t 
think there’s anything you’re saying now, or are likely to say, 
that there’s much chance of your turning out to be similarly 
mistaken in, I suppose ? ” 

It was not a gentle question, and it was useless when asked. 
She could only shake her head, achingly smiling. “ Ah, not 
now ! ” 

“ Or anything you’re not saying, that might come to the 
same thing ? . . . ” 

Ah, this, of the hundred possible turns, was the turn it 


LONDON 


259 

was taking ! She had hoped it might take a better one. . . . 
She faltered. 

“ If it’s my truthfulness you’re questioning, you may rest 
easy. There’s not only nothing I’m not prepared to say — 
there’s nothing I shan’t beg to be allowed to say. I want 
you to know everything. Shall I say it now, or wait till you’ve 
finished ? ” 

“ Now, please.” 

“ Then,” she said in a faint voice, “ there are things that 
— that — that will make it still harder for you. You don’t 
know how to ask me about them, of course, so I must tell 
you. I shall have said all when I say that — that — that the 
thing is not absolutely a secret.” 

Why did he now suddenly wince at the lesser thing when 
he had borne the greater one with at least the appearance 
of fortitude ? He did wince, and his lips parted with a little 
spasm, showing his teeth for a moment. 

“ As you say, I don’t know how to put questions,” he said 
significantly, with a twitching face. . . . 

“ I’ll tell you in as few words as I can. Then — may Heaven 
help you ! . . . First, Bernal Hartopp knows ; how, I don’t 
know ; he knew both of us intimately ; but naturally he’s 
never spoken of it to me, and would die, I know, rather 
than do so to anybody else. — Next, his friend Neill came so 
near the thing one day that I was driven to mislead him — 
to lie to him,” she quickly corrected the palliatory word. 
“ I had to tell him we’d been lovers, knowing the innocent 
sense he’d take it in, and he thought me magnificent. So 
far as I know, he still thinks so, and has probably spoken 

of my magnificence to Mrs. Enright. — Next ” she saw 

again that twitch of his face as she said “ next,” but continued 
resolutely, “ next, a man from India got possession of some 
of my letters, which I bought back for a sum of money — 
it was five hundred pounds, and it was paid on the day I was 
married to you ” 

Suddenly Emney struck at his forehead with both fists, 
and gave an “ Oh ! ” that was almost a howl. — “ Ok! . . .” 

“ and,” she continued, her eyes haggardly on him, 

“ I bought this other, this final letter — it is here, a little 


26 o 


THE EXCEPTION 


crumpled, I’m afraid — for a minor sum yesterday, in order 
that the man might clear out of the country.— The five 
hundred pounds was the sum you remarked on when we were 
abroad.” 

“ That ! ” he groaned. 

“ Yes. You thought I carried it about with me.” 

“ What ? . . . Oh, no, I didn’t. I thought your uncle had 
it,” he said between his teeth. 

She, too, enduring a greater thing, found a special poignancy 
in the smaller one. Everard! . . . The thing involved her 
gentle, easy-going uncle also ! ... Of other innocents caught 
in that mesh she already knew ; but Everard — and for a 
sum of money ! . . . 

“ Oh, don’t wrong him a moment longer,” she said mourn- 
fully ; “it was my doing, and you can hardly wrong me.” 

“ Ah ! ” Again it came from an orifice of gums and teeth. 
“ I should like — one moment — I should like — before we go 

any further, please — to hear of somebody who doesn’t know 

)> 

• For a moment she closed her eyes . . . but she must 
go on. 

“ The remaining man who knows — who’s guessed, I don’t 
know how — people are better guessers than I thought — 
who guessed, and saw when he threw it in my face that it 
was true — is Mr. Bartholomew.” 

No groan could have expressed Emney’s misery as did the 
“ Yes ” that came from him with a little outrush of breath. 
He folded his arms on the lower rail of the bed and buried his 
face in them. For a minute she watched the working of his 
shoulders. . . . When he stood upright again his own suffer- 
ing overshadowed all else in the world — blinded him com- 
pletely to the heroism of the thing she was doing. 

“ And is that all ? ” he demanded. 

“ Do you mean all the people who — know — or guess ? ” 

“ All of anything — all you have to say to me — all I’m to be 
told — anything ’ ’ 

“ No. There’s one thing more. I left it only because it 
might appear to tell in my favour.” 

“ It shall.” 


LONDON 


261 

“ Mr. Bartholomew made love to me. This is what I was 
trying to say last night when I was so distracted. It was in 
the Park. I was coming home from Mrs. Enright’s, wretched, 
wretched, but even then I wasn’t going to tell you everything. 
I was only going to patch it up with you. But after I’d seen 
that man. . . . Oh, you were right about him, and I was 
hideously wrong ! I ought never to have looked at him. One 
more thing, and this is the last. On Friday night I felt that I 
could never, never tell you. Again I’d resolved not to tell 
you. Then yesterday morning that other man came with the 
last letter. . . . That ended my last cowardice. I thanked 
God for sending him. — And that is all.” 

“ All ? ” 

“ All. But give me one moment to think. If there’s any- 
thing more it’s only that I’ve forgotten it — not that I’m 
hiding it ” 

“ All ! ” he repeated, and again began to pace the room. 

He groaned from time to time as fresh facets of the ex- 
quisite thing flashed and rayed within him. There were 
moments in which he seemed calmer, and then again it came 
upon him, shaking him as a gust shakes a sapling. This 
lasted for minutes ; then, as he was passing her again on the 
outward journey to the other end of the room, he suddenly 
turned and paused and looked at her. She had closed her 
eyes, but she opened them again as he spoke to her in a voice 
that quavered pitifully. 

“ I’m afraid — I’m afraid,” he said, “ I said ten o’clock 
this morning — I’m afraid I shall have to ask for a little more 
time ” 

Again a blackness rushed across her heavens. A great 
sickness swept her. More time ! . . . 

“ Oh ! ” she cried, harrowed. “Not that — do it now, 
now ! Anything but that ! I am yours to kill, but not to 
torture ! ” 

He gave her a mournful look. “ Is it torture ? ” he asked. 
It was not irony ; he was not slashing at her ; as two who 
had known one another on earth, meeting in hell, might 
make comparisons, he merely wanted to know whether she 
was tortured too. . . . 


262 THE EXCEPTION 

With an “Oh, dear God ! ” she collapsed and fell half out 
of her chair. 

Again he walked about ... his hands went to his head 
from time to time. . . . 

But presently through her stupor she heard his voice again. 
His words came to her as if through some dense and sluggish 
medium. 

“ How can I ? how can I ? . . . Newly hearing all this ? 
. . . The decision I make now is binding on us both . . . and 
I’m not to have time to think. . . 

But so that he made it now and got it over she did not 
care to what that decision bound her. He was standing 
before her, looking down on her, but she made no further 
sign. 

And even he, bigoted, rigid, freshly torn in halves, could 
not but be sensible of the completeness of her avowal. Had 
she shown resistance in as much as a finger of her his way 
would have appeared clearer to him ; but she half sat in, 
half hung out of her chair, ready for any stroke he might deal 
her. How could he crush one so defenceless ? How could 
he even tell her, so plainly incapable of enduring more, that 
she must endure for another day ? He did not know that 
in another day his course would appear one whit more clearly. 
. . . No, he was not without compassion. He could not, 
could not do it. At ten o’clock, resolved on one point but 
ignorant of the horrible perfection of the whole, his decision 
had been taken ; he had decided to spare her ; but — what 
now ? 

Swiftly a question put itself to him. If he did not still 
spare her, he must conclude that he was less deeply pierced 
by the primary fact than by the secondary complications. 
Was that so ? . . . 

The question answered itself. It was not so. It was the 
primary fact that mattered, and if consequences were bound 
up in it, so much the worse. Consequences modified, but 
did not overturn. The load was heavier than he had con- 
ceived it to be overnight, but it must none the less be borne. 
Already he saw what that burden would involve — the jealous 
mistrust of occasions until the end of his days — armour never 


LONDON 


263 

for an instant doffed — the weapon never out of his hand for 
his defence and hers — and farewell for ever to the tranquil 
composing to sleep at the end of the day. Yet he must 
assume that load. Whether he could bear it, or whether it 
would end by crushing him, remained in the hands of 
God ; he only saw that he must take it up. She must be 
spared. . . . 

His face was buried in his folded arms on the bed rail 
again. He raised it. It was a haggard agglomeration of 
strands of muscle. It became the more haggard as his eyes 
fell on her. 

“ Berice ” he said in a dull voice. 

She did not reply. 

“ You have told me all — everything ? ” 

“ I don’t know — I don’t know,” she moaned. “ I’ve told 
you all I know, but all the world may have been told by this 
time — I don’t care ” 

“ And you, Berice, and myself ? . . . What are we to 
do ? . . .” 

She no longer greatly cared about that either. 

“ Berice,” he said, his hand on the bed-rail, his face patheti- 
cally transfigured, “I’ll try.” 

She sat suddenly upright in the chair. Her eyes ranged 
wildly. She strove to take in the full meaning of his 
words. 

“ I’ll try,” he said again. “ If it’s too much for me at the 
finish I — I can’t help that. I can’t think clearly yet, you see, 
and yet I’ve got to make a decision. Very well • I make it. 
It is that I will try.” 

Her hand had flown to her breast. 

“ You’ll try . . . to forgive me?” she cried unbelievingly. 

He, too, as she had formerly, honestly believed in that 
moment what he said. “ I do — I think I do — forgive you. 
I’ll try — not to let it make any difference ” 

Her hand was still at her breast, the fingers working, as 
if she would have stilled her violently pumping heart by 
clutching at it. For an instant she swayed and threw her 
head back ; she made as if to cast her face upon his feet ; 
but it was a yard from his feet that she swooned in a huddle 


THE EXCEPTION 


264 

on the floor. He threw himself with a cry beside her. As 
his eyes roved about the upper spaces of the room his lips 
framed the name of God. Then he gathered her hard to him. 
As he hoped to receive mercy, so he showed her such mercy 
as was in him. . . . 

It was a few minutes later, as he strove to lift her into her 
chair again, that he had his first haemorrhage. 


XXIII 


I F leave might be taken to interpose a parable, that 
parable would run something like this : 

When the steersman of the mutinied crew, knowing no 
more of compass and card than that in the days of the old 
pilot who had been compelled to walk the plank the slender 
balanced needle had never varied from its northward posi- 
tion, had conceived the idea that there was virtue in the mere 
fact of the needle’s stationariness, and, seeking to ensure 
stability for ever, had nailed it fast and nodded off to sleep, 
he had done no more than the man or woman wilful and per- 
sistent in error does. And when, after many days of disaster, 
a younger member of the crew had perchance remembered 
that, though the needle had ever pointed northward in the 
old pilot’s lifetime, it had nevertheless always swung freely, 
and, calling a council and putting the matter to the vote, had 
knocked the falsely perpetuating nail out again, nothing 
had happened that does not happen when repentance wrings 
the human soul. From fixity in error the released needle 
sweeps half round the card until even in its search for right- 
ness it commits an error of equal magnitude in the opposite 
direction. Thence, with scarcely a pause, it swings back 
again well-nigh to its former position, and thence back again, 
and yet back, oscillating as if it would never settle to rest 
at all. Yet unless its long-maintained false attitude to the 
compelling pole have completely demagnetized it, it does 
settle to rest. The proposer of the removal of the nail prob- 
ably swings at the yard-arm, fallen upon by his fellows, who 
saw only the disorder he had produced ; yet the needle 
settles at last to rest. This is true of revolutions, of the 
nailing down of truth to dogma, and of that bearer of an 

265 


266 THE EXCEPTION 

index-needle magnetized by the slow induction of God — the 
human soul. 

It was true of Berice. That released needle, her Con- 
science, swung clear over, clear past the point of her duty, 
into error so oppositely wide that she asked herself with 
bitter groans whether things would not have been better 
left alone. Why strive to mend one error only to commit 
another ? Why swing back again to the original error ? 
And why veer round again, and again, and yet again ? . . . 
The needle must have lost its virtue. . . . 

She did not know that in that case it would not have 
swung at all — that the strength of its so sickening oscillations 
was precisely the measure of the virtue in it. 

For, far overshooting the pole-star of her Duty, she swept 
round to fantastic and impossible sacrifices. Her life must 
be a continuous offering, each moment a new kindling, each 
breath she drew a fresh oblation. Canonization was too 
little for Harry ; she must deify. In him she felt there could 
be no variation nor shadow of turning. He had forgiven 
her — he had said so — and it was godlike to forgive. . . . 
Her soul was still at times all Harry’s. She had begun to 
pay, had given earnest, but did not yet possess herself. 

Then came the dizzy sweep back to despair. Again she 
grovelled in spirit. The dream of bright, impossible sacrifices 
had already forsaken her, and heaviness and obscurity were 
about her again. Of what use to struggle longer, since strug- 
gling but plunged her back into the night ? Better to have 
left the needle nailed ; better, far better, never to have told 
him ! . . . 

And so back to the sacrifices again, and thence once more 
to despair. . . . 

Yet the swings became less wild, she held herself more 
steadily, meanings appeared, and, when they disappeared 
again, dipped only a little below her horizon. Presently 
suffering taught her, even when she was on the out- 
ward course of aberration, to look forward to the return 
again. . . . 

Then her Duty appeared, though still a little waveringly, 
before her. 


LONDON 267 

The Tracys, the Howitts, Lady Haverford, Mrs. Enright, 
any of these would gladly have taken her out of town when 
June passed, and with the coming of July London’s trees 
grew grey with dust and London’s pavements glared and 
reeked ; but she declined all invitations. Harry was unable 
to leave, and she would not leave his side. Some “ recon- 
struction ” was toward at the bank, of which Berice only 
vaguely understood one thing, namely, that it was to give 
Harry that reward for which he had planned and worked 
for so long — freedom definitely to retire from business al- 
together. He sat up at night with papers before him, and 
brought governors and directors home to dinner. He spoke 
less to her than he had formerly done, but for the first time 
in their intercourse she was happy, without preoccupation, 
and at peace in his company. Sometimes he kissed her, 
almost passionately, without apparent reason ; and she 
took these kisses as tokens of her rehabilitation, and returned 
them with gentle fervour. Sometimes when he kissed her 
thus she felt her heart so full that she had to leave the room 
hastily, that he also might not be overcome. 

For that was the first feeble step she had taken towards 
her duty — to allow all, if it would, to rest, sink, die. He had 
been great enough to pardon, and if out of that pardon there 
was ever to spring a new, tender, budding, hopeful sprout 
it could only be on the condition that she also refrained 
from disturbing that yet too thin covering that lay over the 
corpse of her old error. That which she could never forget 
she must appear never to remember; her recognitions and 
prostrations took place within herself. Not a word of it 
all ever passed between them. He was assiduous in taking 
her here and there, to plays, receptions, galleries. The 
health of his body and the comfort of his soul became her 
hourly solicitude. If she had never loved him before she 
would have said that she loved him then. That fair, young, 
hopeful, sprouting thing was Love. . . . 

The shiver that passed over her soul when, like the sudden 
dying-out of the brightness of things as a thin cloud darkens 
the summer day, she was for the first time affrighted by the 
surmise that it was better with her than it was with him, 


268 THE EXCEPTION 

came on a sultry day early in September. For two days he 
had spoken little, and all that morning he had been closeted 
with his ‘ reconstruction ’ papers and had had lunch sent 
in to him. Then, very worn and tired-looking, he had come 
into the drawing-room, where Berice was arranging flowers. 
He had crossed to her and had embraced her with such over- 
strained fervour that she had felt suddenly uneasy. She had 
looked again at his tired face. 

“ Dear, you are working too hard,” she had murmured, 
cherishing him. 

“ No — no — no,” he had murmured listlessly. “ Kiss me 
again, Berice.” 

'And again had come that slightly unnatural enlacing. 
Then he had dragged himself from it almost by violence, and 
had walked quickly out of the room, leaving her standing 
there. . . . 

It was then that that quick surmise came, and she shivered. 
It was not the first time he had thus flown to her, as if his 
need of her was a hunger that must be instantly satisfied. 
Why that almost ravening hunger ? Why this almost brutal 
appeasing ? It could not, could not be that he was weaken- 
ing ?.. . 

Then the knowledge came over her like a deluge. These 
demonstrations of love were made, not for her, but for him- 
self. He was telling himself that he loved her — whipping 
himself to it — filling with empty observances and clamorous 
proofs the narrow gap that had already opened and was 
widening between them. All was not the same. It was not 
* making no difference.’ He was beginning to fail in his 
resolve. . . . 

And his failure was taking that mocking form ! 

The feeling of desolation that surged up in her was for 
him, not for herself. She saw. He was torn in two. Half of 
him, the just half that a little mercy had leavened, still loved 
her ; but the other half, the jealous possessive half into 
which she had thrust the barb, was writhing again. And he 
knew it too, and sought to allay the inner pain by the plaster- 
ing on of the salves of endearment. He kissed her in despera- 
tion. Those kisses were the feeble weapons with which he 


LONDON 269 

fought for her, for himself, for that new and weak thing, their 
love. . . . 

And she could only look on, without a word, at the warfare 
that was already wearing him down. . . . 

That same night she learned how right she was in her 
surmise. He made his health the excuse for the proposal he 
submitted to her. Twice a fit of coughing had left his hand- 
kerchief stained with red, and a certain proximity, he said, 
could hardly be good for her. . . . 

The knowledge that for the present at any rate he wanted 
less of her sunk slowly into her soul. 

“ I want to be with you, Harry,” she murmured brokenly. 

“ Much better not,” he said, looking away. “You know 
what . . 

She knew what the words and the significant pause that 
followed them meant. It was now with her as in that moment 
of madness she had told Bartholomew it was. . . . 

“ Oh, Harry,” she murmured again sadly, “ don’t drive 
me away from you. ...” 

But he said again that it wouldn’t be right. “ Not until 
I’m a little better, at all events,” he said. “ When this re- 
construction work’s done we’ll go abroad — we’ll go to Algiers 
for the winter if you like — but until then it would be best 
as I say. . . 

Her head dropped. Her surmise had been doubly right. 
Even in his kisses that which he thought he had vanquished 
in himself had shown itself strong again, and now the kisses 
themselves were forbidden. She was to appear to believe 
the unfrankness about his health. Oh, what was to become of 
that new and gentle thing for which she had begun to hope? . . . 

“You really think it is best ? ” she asked submissively. 

“ I do.” 

“ Then it must be as you wish.” 

They separated. 

But not for long — not longer than a week. The power 
over him she least desired, that she still had. They came 
together again. . . . 

They separated again. 

Separation, reunion, and separation again determined 


270 THE EXCEPTION 

towards a modus vivendi. His dressing-room now became 
her sleeping apartment, whence she could be at his side in 
a moment should he be seized in the night. 

These seizures were at once her dread and her consolation. 
Everard had once said that Nature had never intended her 
for a nurse ; impulse overrode her judgment too frequently, 
and even the will to help was not always with her. Yet it 
brought all the woman crowding up into her bosom to think, 
when his attacks came, that he should be so dependent on 
her, who in other things hung upon his pleasure and com- 
mands. She had no thought of establishing a contra account 
with him as a set-off ; that she could never do ; but only 
to be allowed to give of her care and love and mothering 
came over her spirit with the sweetness of a healing juice. 
Things had changed since she had so reluctantly obeyed 
Mrs. Finch-Ommaney’s summons to Undershaws. . . . 

Yet out of these very crises a circumstance more dis- 
tressing than all the rest arose. Those hours in which he 
forgot all else in her arms she knew; she knew, too, those 
other hours in which he avoided meetings with her or even 
fled her presence outright ; but the querulousness and irrita- 
tion that followed his attacks was a compound of the two 
things terribly difficult to handle. She did not always know 
what to attribute to himself and what to his sickness. And 
she did not know how to attribute it when one evening he 
suddenly spoke, though without either irritation or querulous- 
ness, of the thing that hitherto had not once been mentioned 
between them. 

“ Berice,” he said suddenly, after half an hour’s silence — 
he was sitting in his bedroom clad in his dressing-gown, and 
in his tone there seemed somehow to be the assumption that 
she was already aware of the turn things were taking and 
might even be supposed not to be entirely ignorant of his 
private train of thought — " I don’t know, after all, that 
we’re going the best way about things.” 

She did not instantly take his meaning. “ The best way ? ” 
she repeated. 

“ Yes. The way we’re taking,” he replied. “ I can only 
hope it is, and that we shall be able to manage.” 


LONDON 


271 

“ Manage ? . . . The way we’re taking ? . . she echoed. 

“ Of silence,” he said, with a meaning look. 

She saw. . . . 

It was a minute before she replied. “ The choice rests with 
you, Harry,” she said, hardly above a whisper. “ Say what 
you want to do.” 

“Yes,” he answered absently. . . . Then he resumed. 
“ It’s a question of policy, you see — of seeing whether the 
same end can’t be better attained by other means.” 

“ Other means than silence ...” she faltered. It was 
not a comment, but rather an acknowledgment that she had 
heard. 

“ Other than silence,” he repeated. “ Silence merely 
means that we’re avoiding the thing. It’s as if a great rock 
had been plumped down into the middle of our lives and we 
walked round and round it, you and I, pretending to each 
other we don’t know it’s there — pretending to ourselves 
we don’t know it’s there.” 

She shook her head sadly. “Not to ourselves, Harry.” 

“ Well, we’ll say doing a rather ridiculous thing about it, 
anyway. I’ve been wondering whether it’s the best way 
after all.” 

She did not answer. What was there for her, seeing what 
was coming, to answer ? 

“ I’ve been wondering,” he continued, “ whether open 
admissions aren’t better than tacit ones.” 

She produced her voice with difficulty. “ Do you mean — 
we’re to — speak of it ? ” 

“ That’s what I’ve been wondering.” 

She was profoundly moved. Presently she asked heart- 
brokenly, “ Has it been — so hard ? ” 

He answered evasively, perhaps a little ashamed. 

“ That at least we needn’t talk about. No good going 
into that. You see, nobody can help speaking a good deal 
from their own point of view, and to do so is only selfishness 
beyond a certain point. But that isn’t answering the ques- 
tion. I feel that all the time there’s something accumulating 
between us that must find an outlet sooner or later — a sort of 
safety-valve ’ ’ 


THE EXCEPTION 


272 

Ah, yes ! she sadly mused : a sort of safety-valve — a 
perpetual little spluttering and hissing, a continual little 
cloud about the nozzle. It was to relieve the pressure within ; 
it was that or an explosion. . . . 

And was a new love to be born out of that ? . . . 

“ Oh, Harry ! ” she choked. 

“ Well,” he persisted doggedly, perhaps more ashamed 
still, “ the other way doesn’t seem altogether a success.” 

She lifted weary, sad eyes to him. 

“ And have it fresh every morning — never, never forgot- 
ten ? ” 

Again he showed compunction. He moved uneasily. 
“ I’ve admitted I’m thinking for the moment of myself,” 
he said shortly. “ That doesn’t mean that you also aren’t 
to be thought of at the same time. It’s a question that 
affects both of us, and I suppose we’ve both rights as well as 
obligations. I’m merely telling you quite honestly what I 
think. . . . Anyway, we needn’t bother about it to-night. 
We’ll see how we go on. I merely mention it, that’s all. . . 

But in speaking of whether the thing was to be mentioned 
he had already mentioned it. It was out of the scope of his 
nature that not everything that exists may safely be named, 
and he had no difficulty in dressing out his idea with all 
manner of plausibilities. . . . Difficulty ? Not he ! It was 
there, the rock that had been plumped down into the garden 
of their lives ; it might even be held to demand speech in 
proportion to the difference it made. True, that might be to 
take away piecemeal what he had magnanimously granted 
in the lump, but what else could he do ? The thing was 
merely stronger than he, and what he could not do by force 
he must compass in some other way. . . . Anyway, there 
was no hurry ; they would see what was to be done. . . . 

It was in his ailing hours more than all that she could not 
but be aware of what was passing in his breast. He struggled 
desperately, in what was plainly already a losing fight. Far 
from being without variation or shadow of turning, he was a 
tortured man, fighting to his last ounce for the pair of them, 
pitying the pair of them, but sometimes pitying himself more 
than he pitied her. For example : 


LONDON 


273 

“ What was that saying,” he asked suddenly one night — 
she had thought he was reading — “ what was that saying 
you told me that morning when you showed me round your 
uncle’s mill ? Some local saying or other ” 

“ Saying ? ” she asked, at a loss. 

“ Yes — some saying or other about a nail.” 

“About a nail ? . . . Do you mean ‘A Nail in the Stocks ’? ” 

“Ah, yes ; that was it ! ” 

That was all : presently he appeared to be reading again ; 
but she apprehended perfectly. As a nail sometimes tore the 
cloth in the trough of the fulling-mill, so there was a nail that 
rent the web of their lives. . . . 

Again : they had visited a play together, a modern play, 
based on the institution of marriage, in which it was ad- 
vanced that that estate was something to be contracted and 
contracted out of again at the personal convenience of the 
parties. Afterwards she shrank from discussion of the too 
allusive topic, but he seemed incapable of resisting its allure- 
ments. 

“ I suppose it is so,” he said, after a long silence, as they 
drove home. “ Laws are made for man after all, and not 
man for laws. Man was there before the law, anyway.” 

She did not mention the loathed name of another m^n who 
justified all he chose to do by the same plea. . . . 

“ Take Patricia in this very play,” he continued. “ What, 
after all, was she getting out of her marriage ? She’d only 
one life to live, and what was it with that fellow ? Life’s 
too precious stuff to waste in mere discipline.” 

That in effect, and without intending it, he was making her 
life ‘ mere discipline ’ did not appear to cross his mind. She 
saw that she had so shaken to the centre his lifelong convic- 
tions that for the first time even their stale opposites came to 
him with a freshness. . . . 

“ And so,” he went on, “ they talked it over, naturally, 
quietly, without bitterness or recriminations, and each went 
his way. . . . It’s difficult to see what else they could have 
done.” 

“ I thought it was very well acted,” Berice murmured. 
No convictions now came so freshly to her as the very 
18 


274 THE EXCEPTION 

principles he seemed, so late in the day, to be calling into 
question. 

“ Oh, the acting was good enough. . . . But it was an 
interesting play. ... You don’t appear to have an opinion 
on it,” he said suddenly. 

Berice had no choice but to produce one. 

“ I can’t help thinking,” she said with embarrassment, 
“ that the scales were loaded just a little.” 

“ In Patricia’s favour, you mean ? ” 

“ Yes. She was made to appear a little — exceptional ” 

“ Well ? ” He paused invitingly. . . . 

“ — and rather — it’s difficult to put — rather asserted to be 
so. I don’t know. ... In that part where she speaks of 
living her own life — it seemed a silly sort of life, anyway — 
not very important, I mean. ... It’s — it’s difficult. ... I 
only feel sure that in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out 
of a thousand the rule wouldn’t apply.” 

“ No ? . . . But what about the odd sheep that’s lost in 
the wilderness ? ” he inquired, with precisely what degree 
of ironical comment she could not tell. 

She made no reply. It was not for her to invite a “ H’m ! 
This from you ! ” by advancing the proposition that this 
world is of supreme importance as long as we are in it, with 
the corollary, whether it is not usually those who have proved 
themselves incapable of its difficulties who vaunt their special 
information as to the next. . . . Again that was all ; but 
she saw her own prophecy fulfilling itself with fatal speed. 
That dead, and therefore unkillable man was grinning up 
from the grave, and Harry was squirming under his grinning. 
A “ H’m ! ” or a “ Well ? ” might be his only comment when 
he had extracted a diffident opinion from her, but packed 
into that “ H’m ! ” or that “ Well ? ” to be produced from 
the loaded pilule as a conjurer might produce the death’s- 
head flag that sweeps out over half the stage, she saw what 
he saw — not merely the clouding of present, but the falsifica- 
tion of all past joys, the annihilation of all happiness to come. 
Present, prospect, retrospect, the canker ate into all ; and 
though he contented himself with a “ Well ? ” or a “ H’m ! ” 
now he would probably say more by and by. . . . 


LONDON 


275 

And yet, poor devil, he struggled. A worse man would 
not have been so mangled. The protagonists of the play of 
which they had spoken could be sweetly reasonable, for, as 
Berice had said, nowhere in the play did their capacity for 
suffering go beyond bare assertion. They were fearless, 
broad-minded people, those of the play. If in their breadth, 
like an overtopped February dyke, they did spread away so 
thin that only fragmentary reflections of Heaven showed 
among the soaked grass and weeds, still they undeniably 
covered a deal of ground. . . . They were fire-clear spirits, 
they of the play : not like those others — 

That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood. 

And still revolt when Truth would set them free, 

but eaglets of the newer morn, phoenixes rather, each 
nesting in the lofty eyrie of his own exceptionalness. Phil- 
osophy’s robes they wore, not as they whose hands had 
“ycarve that cloth by violence,” each bearing away such 
morsel as he could seize, but as in contemptuous compassion 
of the less blessed who, that they should be gay and immune, 
still went in the hodden grey of obedience and responsibility. 
. . . Pay ? They pay ? . . . They would have laughed ! 
They paid nothing. Instead they were paid for, and a 
very small general levy on the public trust and confidence 
sufficed to keep them in comfort. . . . But Harry was not 
broad-minded. He was no eaglet. He had no divine phil- 
osophy. He was merely born to suffer, and to miss suffer- 
ing’s last costly jewel, the capacity to turn even suffering to 
beauty. . . . 

Nor had he discovered, as she was beginning to discover, 
that the head may bow to the storm and yet be erect after it 
has passed. He stood it out stiffly as an oak, and was wrenched 
to the roots by each blast. And, seeing her calm, he mar- 
velled that apparently she should be less sensitive than he. . . . 
He thought she did not greatly care, and that having 
dropped that huge rock into the middle of their lives, she 
was watching with equanimity while he broke his heart in 
trying to remove it. 


XXIV 


ERHAPS Berice had hoped for too much when she had 



L contemplated the asking of a single boon from her 
husband — that she might be allowed to ease her heart of its 
load on Mollie Enright’s breast. He refused. 

“ I don’t see what good purpose it would serve,” he ob- 
jected, “ and it seems to me that ” 

The shrug with which he completed the sentence said 
plainly enough, “ It seems to me that for a secret it’s quite 
sufficiently widely known already : please consider me a 
little now. ...” 

She accepted the refusal meekly. He had an incontestable 
right to make it, was perhaps even prudent to make it ; but 
when he had made it he stood irresolutely for some moments 
in a way that gave her a passing hope that he was reconsider- 
ing the forbiddance. But he was not. He was merely pur- 
suing a train of thought that the mention of Mrs. Enright’s 
name had started. He knew very little of her except that 
she was a widow and engaged to Neill. . . . 

° ‘.There’s another thing I’ve wanted for some time to men- 
tion,” he said presently. “ Perhaps it isn’t exactly cheerful, 
but it’s wise to be prepared. It is this : that in the event of 
anything happening to me I leave a good deal in your hands. 
I’ve made my dispositions, and so I mention this quite in- 
formally. There are my collections, for instance. I should 
like them to be kept together. Whether they remain in 
your hands or become a public trust I’ve left entirely to you ; 
the few conditions I make you’ll find in my will. There’s 
also a son of a cousin of my mother’s whom I’ve only seen 
once ; he seemed an honest sort of chap, and I shall prob- 
ably make^some sort of a minor bequest to him. But there’s 


276 


LONDON 


277 

nobody else I need consider, I think. The rest I leave in 
your charge.” 

Melancholy anticipations were not particularly good 
either for his health or his spirits, and she begged him to set 
such thoughts aside ; but he seemed to find a dismal comfort 
in them. 

“ These things have to be faced,” he said. “ And you 
may as well know now, for instance, that I put no obstacles 
in your way if you should think fit to marry again.” 

Again she sought to turn him. “ Oh, Harry, as if it was 
not just as likely that you'd have to face that contingency as 
that I should ! ” 

He stared at her for a moment ; then : “ I ? ... Oh, 
no ! ” he said. It could be taken in either of two ways — that 
he did not think he would survive her, or that if he did he 
had had enough of marriage. . . . She gave it the first inter- 
pretation, and ridiculed it gently. 

“ What fancies, Harry ! As if, when your work's done and 
you’ve been away for a rest, you won’t be as strong as ever 
you were ! ” 

But he shook his head. “No, it will be for you that that 
question will crop up, not for me. Of course, I don’t advise 
you one way or the other. I know you won’t decide without 
thinking it carefully over.” 

In this lurked a sting that she could not with decency 
entirely disregard. He had advised her in effect to think well 
before she saddled another man with the burden she had laid 
upon him. 

“ Dear,” she said quietly, looking fixedly at him, “ when 
people’s eyes have been opened they don’t make the same 
mistake twice.” 

But it was almost as if he sought an occasion for difference. 
“ The mistake of marrying ? ” he asked. 

“ Of marrying as I — as I unhappily did. I should never 
do that again.” 

“ Well, well. . . In the gesture of his hand was an in- 
difference, as if he said that since when that day came he 
would be out of the way the question had no great im- 
portance for him. . . . 


THE EXCEPTION 


278 

Then she made a quick little appeal. “ Oh, Harry must 
you do this ? Is there no other way ? Must you harp always 
on a thing that’s past remedy now ? If you must, there’s 
only one thing for me to do ” 

He thought he understood what that thing was. “ Don’t 
be ridiculous, Berice,” he said. “ You talked like that before,” 
he added impatiently. 

“ Like that ? ... Oh, you mistake me. I don’t mean 
your revolver. That’s all past. No : the only thing for me 
to do is to — to bear it.” 

He made a little peevish movement. “ Come, come, Berice,” 
he said, “ let’s take this like sensible people. We’ve got it 
to bear between us. Things will adjust themselves in a bit, 
I’ve no doubt, but you can’t expect them to do so all at once. 
I’m trying to deal justly, you know.” 

She could not say that he was dealing unjustly, nor was 
there a deal to be said for the kind of justice he meted out to 
her. She could only make no claim whatever. Defenceless 
she stood before him, for him to wound if he must. 

But suddenly again she changed. Her bosom began to 
rise and fall agitatedly. She broke out in a low and unsteady 
voice. 

“It would have been kinder— it would have been kinder 
— if you’d done this at first — that morning. I could have 
made you all the reparation in my power at once then. . . . 
But you wouldn’t allow me. You took that away from me. 
'And now — and now — I’m not to be killed mercifully, but by 
inches. . . . Oh, Harry, don’t you see what you’re rooting 
up, the very instant it’s born ? You have such a love now, if 
you’ll take it, as you never, never had before — you asked 
for that chance, you know — we didn’t know how it would 
come about, but it has come about — if only, if only you’ll 
take it ! Must it die, Harry ? . . .” She flung out her arms. 

Again compunction shot him through, and he knew not 

what to say. " Dearest ” he began ; but suddenly she 

sank to the ground, lacing her arms about his knees and 
turning up to him an aching, dreadfully wistful face. 

“ Harry, Harry ! ” she cried. “ It’s not me I want you to 
think of — don’t think of me — but spare, oh, spare yourself ! 


LONDON 


279 

I only want to see you at peace ! Yourself, yourself, Harry ! 
Then, if you’ve a crumb of comfort left over you can give it 
to me ! . . . Oh, love, was that other so much ? So much, 
when I tell you that until this came I didn’t know what love 
was ? That’s all yours, Harry — all, all yours ! . . . And 
what was that old thing ? So silly, so meaningless ! Oh, 
what hope is there for any of us if a thing like that, that never 
had any real life, is to live on for ever ? Don’t you see, hus- 
band mine, what a precious, oh, a precious thing has come 
out of it ? Don’t you see that that precious thing’s 
yours ? Don’t you see that without that other you’d 

never have had it ? Oh, don’t kill it, Harry, don’t kill it ! ” 

His hands were moving in her hair, but his brow was 
twisted with pain. 

“If only — if only ” he groaned, but he could not speak 

it. Again her cry rang out. 

“Oh, can a thing that’s so little now to me be so much to 
you ? Isn’t your love strong enough to bear it ? Wouldn’t 

you marry me again, knowing all ? Wouldn't you ? ” 

As he looked down on her through his tears his heart 
vowed that he would. . . . 

“ Wouldn't you, Harry ? Not even as Murragh Neill can 

marry Mollie Enright ? Wouldn't you ? ” 

He had freed his knees from her embrace and was walking 
about the room, no longer making any attempt to conceal his 
hideous suffering. And again it was an anguish to him that 
he was bolted and riveted to himself — could not change his 
skin — must suffer according to the law of his being — could 
not take it as those others would have taken it, the philosophic, 
broad-minded, clear-eyed rejoicers in a life the cost of which 
they escaped. Recently he had envied these ; now he hated 
them again. He hated them for their irresponsibility, their 
lightheartedness, their luck. What was it all to them ? One 
mistress up, t’other down — it was all the same to them ! . 
And the mockery they made of the real things! It em- 
bittered him again beyond bearing that they should preach 
their lax charity and justify themselves in their blasphemy 
of the sweet name of mercy. For it was a'blasphemy— the 
only blasphemy. It was not this man nor that woman they 


28 o 


THE EXCEPTION 


wronged, but Right itself. They quenched the inner light 
of all. Any poor devil wavering between desire and duty, 
torn, in peril, but not past hope of safety, had but to go to 
them, and they would find him reasons enough why, instead 
of bracing himself, he should close his eyes and allow all to 
slip from him ! They could filch fire from Heaven, and no 
beak was plunged into their vitals as they expired continually 
chained to their rock ! Incapable of putting two and two 
together on earth, they nevertheless attempted the gigantic 
equations of Heaven, and decked all with a false divinity. 
“ To know all is to forgive all ” — ah, it came well from them ! 
“ Judge not ” — no, for a tremendous reason ! “ Let him 

that is without sin among you ” — what, did men no longer 
fall on their faces before their God, but instead made terms 
and compositions and bargains with Him, refrained from 
throwing on the condition they were not thrown at, giving 
Him a cheap advertisement on earth to be redeemed in the 
genuine stock hereafter ? ... No, they did not suffer, 
Harrison Emney’s heart cried bitterly. They did not steal 
from the general capital sum, but merely drew on it a little 
in advance — hardly a peculation when you considered the 
dazzling profits almost certain to come of the merely techni- 
cal irregularity ! . . . And if every thief who dipped his 
fingers into the till could point out the convenience of having 
money, well, there are thieves and thieves, and one must al- 
ways be careful that the exceptional thief is not wronged ! . . 

Ah, if Emney could only have taken it all broad-mindedly, 
and pocketed such profits as there were ! . . . 

He had stopped before Berice again. She still knelt. 
Suddenly he sank on his knees at her side, passed his arms 
about her, and drew her close to him. 

“ Bear with me, darling,” he gulped. “ Yes, I know you 
have given me all— all that I could never have had without 
this. The way it’s come about has rather shaken me, though. 
. . . . But bear with me. Pm no hero. I really thought 
that morning that I could carry it ; it didn’t seem beyond 
my strength then ; and if the distance tells, I shall grow 
stronger too, I dare say. I shall get used to it by and by ; 
I’ll try ; I will. I do love you. I’ll try. When these bad 


LONDON 281 

times come I won’t let you see me ; I’ll lock myself up ; I’ll 
send you away. I’ll try — I will try. Will you forgive me, 
and kiss me ? . . 

They kissed as they knelt. Presently they rose again, 
almost happy. . . . 

For a week it was as if they were newly-married again. . . . 

His idea, that a serviceable end might be served if at times 
they saw less of one another, led her to accept, at his urging, 
an invitation to spend a few days with Mollie Enright, who, 
with Neill and Bunny, was staying with an aunt in Surrey. 
Berice no longer feared the prospect of meeting Bunny, and, 
as Harry had to be away for a couple of days, they travelled 
together as far as Guildford. There they parted, he promising 
to write and tell her when he himself should return. 

To find herself with Mollie Enright again was a blessed 
interlude for Berice. Kind finds kind more or less surely in 
this imperfect world, and there seek us out with the years 
brothers and sisters not ours by accident of birth. Out of 
the common source of experience from which we all alike 
drink we become related ; and out of that fount a close 
sistership was established between Berice and Mollie. It 
came of itself ; they knew nothing of its coming until it was 
there. There were no confidences, no little explicit confes- 
sions between them ; nor, since the wild mood had passed in 
which Berice had dreaded men, did it matter that she was 
thrown now into Neill’s company, now into Bunny’s, alone. 

Bunny, in fact, no longer avoided her ; and it was not a 
difficult guess that Mollie had privately ordered him to be 
nice to Berice and had given him a talking-to. Berice re- 
membered her certainty that he had taken Mollie into his 
confidence, and for the rest, now that it no longer mattered, 
she thought that Bunny had greatly improved in that lesson 
of life which consists in taking things as they are. They were 
able to talk without embarrassment, and, if a rock was set 
down in the middle of their lives also, they must adapt 
themselves to its presence or forswear each other’s company 
entirely. 

One remark, and one only that glanced at the past, did 
Bunny make during Berice’s stay. The four of them had 


282 


THE EXCEPTION 


taken a long walk, and Mollie and Neill had dropped out of 
sight over the brow of a road that ran between deep sandy 
banks. Bunny had been speaking of certain Imperial cele- 
brations that had been held the year before, and, as Bunny 
had the “ colour-sense ” very strongly, he had growled 
almost in his old style that certain natives had been brought 
over for no better purposes than those of pomp and display 
and empty advertisement of the Empire. 

“ And our hold on India depending so largely on the respect 

in which white women are held ! ” he had growled. 

“ Revolting ! I saw ’em at Hampton Court ; a couple of 
hundred yards of ’em there were, swarming about the en- 
closure ropes, these fellows on one side and quite decent 
middling-sort English girls on the other ! AH over ’em they 
were ; revolting ! ” 

“ I suppose they went merely out of curiosity,” Berice 
had suggested. “ It was a spectacle.” 

“ Spectacle ! "... A pretty sort of spectacle half-breeds 
are ! . . . And all to make a holiday ! . . . Well, I suppose 
it’s no more than we do over there. ...” 

“ How, we do over there ? ” 

“ Their women,” said Bunny curtly. . . . 

“ Do you mean — do you mean that Englishmen out 
there . . . ? ” 

“ I mean that some of ’em — officers too . . . but it’s 
pretty distasteful : let’s drop it.” 

He left it at that ; but it did not remain at that in Berice’s 
thoughts. That Bunny had spoken of the matter at all 
seemed to argue a particularity, an instance, perhaps. . . . 
For one moment she was conscious of a slight nausea ; she 
thought of Celia Chester ... but the next minute she was 
herself and walking forward again. After all, it didn’t matter ; 
that in her which had experienced a momentary twinge was 
so old, so old and far away. Her dissociation from it was 
almost complete, and to her hand, ready for taking, lay the 
last forgiveness of all— her own. Bunny, she knew, knew 
hosts of men in India . . . but it didn’t matter, now. . . . 

And though they dropped the subject, he had been quite 
specific enough. , . . 


LONDON 


283 

Berice would have given a good deal had Bunny not been 
acting quite so obviously under orders. She was very curious 
to know how he himself stood affected towards her. She had 
not had twenty consecutive words with him since that day 
when, realizing that he knew, she had refused to let him see 
that she knew ; and gladly, had it been possible, she would 
have withdrawn that refusal now. But it was not possible. 
The withdrawal might have involved Harry, who had for- 
bidden her to involve him further. She must take that also 
on her shoulders — the weight of her concealment. She 
wondered what, exactly, had taken place between Bunny 
and Mollie, and found herself making guesses. . . . Bunny 
had loved her ; possibly still loved her ; no doubt he had 
told Mollie Enright so ; and naturally Mollie must have asked 
certain questions. In that case Bunny’s replies to her 
“ Did you ever ask her ? . . . Why didn’t you ask her ? ” 
must have left many things unexplained. What guesses had 
Mollie been making in her own heart ? . . . 

Never, never had she longed as ardently that all might be 
hidden as she now yearned to tell Mollie all ! 

But to Mollie also she must remain spuriously magnifi- 
cent. . . . 

That walk with Bunny had been rather injudiciously long ; 
it had made her back ache and set her head throbbing ; and 
the next morning she did not appear at breakfast. Her 
absence brought Mollie up to her room ; she found her sitting 
on the edge of her bed, her dressing arrested half-way. A 
quick look between the two women sufficed. . . . Mollie 
herself undressed her again and put her back into bed, and, 
when she had had her own breakfast, came up again to sit 
with her. Presently their two heads were on one pillow, 
Mollie lying down dressed by her side. . . . Her first mar- 
riage had given her no children. . . . 

“ But you will have, dear,” Berice murmured in her 
ear. . . . 

Mollie laughed softly. 

“ That’s as it may be. Of course, one wishes . . / but my 
heart wouldn’t be broken so long as I had Murragh. . . .” 

“ But— before ? . . .” 


THE EXCEPTION 


284 

“ Ah, before ! . . ” 

Their talk became secret. 

“ But, dear,” Mollie said presently, “ ought you to be 
thinking of travelling a few weeks from now ? ” Berice had 
told Mollie that Harry intended to get away as soon as the 
‘ reconstruction ’ was completed. 

“ We shall go quite comfortably.” 

But — a couple of days in the train ? ” 

“ I shall be all right. It will do me less harm than it 
would to stay behind.” 

“ You model wife ! ” Mollie commented. 

“Not at all,” said Berice. . . . “ But go and join your 
own man. Don’t waste your day here.” 

“ Oh, they’re off together somewhere or other, the pair 
of them.” And then, giving Berice a look that was half shy 
and half mischievous, she asked, “ How do you find Bunny ? ” 

Berice coloured faintly, and smiled. “ I find him as if — as 
if you’d been talking to him,” she said. 

Mollie twinkled. “ Do you ? ... Most observant, to be 
sure ! . . .” 

“ Why did you ? ” Berice asked in confusion. 

But Mollie turned her off with a light laugh. “ Why ? 
Well, he came as near turning his back on you as he dared 
that afternoon at my house a few weeks ago ; he was as cross 
as a bear with a sore head, and I told him so ; that’s all.” 

It was not all ; Berice was sure it was not all ; but it was 
all that Mollie seemed inclined to say. And a fresh wonder 
had arisen in Berice. It was whether, supposing the barrier 
of Harry’s forbiddance had not existed, she had the right to 
obtain a selfish ease for herself at the cost of placing the 
burden of a secret on her friend. She began to doubt whether 
she had that right. . . . 

She had daily letters from Harry, and the one she received 
on the following morning made her again a little uneasy. 
He was no more clever at concealing things in his letters 
than he was at expressing them, and it seemed to her that 
the letter had an undercurrent of painful thought. She knew 
the hundred occasions of smarting that hemmed him round ; a 
book, a paper, a reminiscence, the sight of a happy couple, 


LONDON 


285 

in any of these lay the possibility of barbed surprise ; and 
the letter suggested that during her absence his thoughts 
were making havoc with him again. . . . She took a sudden 
decision ; it was that she would return on the morrow. 
Though she could give him no more than that appeasing of 
his pain that was born of his wreaking himself on her, it 
was in her to give that, and she felt she must give it. She 
would return on the morrow. . . . 

But as it happened, she was to return earlier than the 
morrow. The letter had come by the morning’s post ; at 
midday there arrived for her a telegram from his doctor. 
The wording of it was emptily reassuring — everything was 
quite all right — a slight attack — if she could conveniently 
return — but absolutely no cause for alarm. . . . 

She wired back the single word ‘ Coming,’ and then sought 
Mollie. 

“ Very well, dear ; perhaps you’d better ; I’m sorry,” 
Mollie sighed. “ You’ll let us know how you find him ? . . .” 

“I’ll let you know,” said Berice. 

Bunny accompanied her that afternoon to the station. 
During the greater part of the journey he did not speak. His 
sympathetic silence, indeed, lasted until he had handed her 
her ticket and put her into the train ; then he mumbled 
something about coming to see her again before he went 
back to Brittany — if he did go back — trusting she’d find 
everything all right — and (this blurted out) again hoping she 
was happy. He seemed to recognize that his former expres- 
sion of that hope had been but a perfunctory performance. 

Berice gave him a long, serious, affectionate look. Into it 
she strove to put she did not clearly know what of admission 
and conciliation and humility. 

“ It’s — all right, Bunny,” she said, her eyes holding his. 
“ It’s all right — now ” She dared the last word, trem- 

bling lest it should be transgressing Harry’s orders, but 
feeling that she owed Bunny something. 

She had to trust him to understand. . . . Already the 
guard was waving his flag. 

“ You — you’re happy, Berice ? ” Bunny demanded, with a 
little, eager jump. 


286 


THE EXCEPTION 


“ I — love my husband/’ Berice replied, releasing his eyes. 

Bunny lifted his cap as the train moved away ; then, 
without looking behind him, he strode out of the station. 
His eyes were on the ground, and he was frowning. He was 
wondering whether Berice loved her husband for something 
he was, or — for something he had done. He couldn’t quite 
understand that ‘ now.’ . . . 

“ It’s for something he’s done,” he muttered to himself. 
“ I wonder what it was ? . . .” 

The wonder occupied him as he sauntered idly back along 
the highroad, head down, hands deep in pockets, and with a 
quick averting of his eyes, as if he did not wish them to be 
seen, when somebody passing gave him good day. . . 

Two and a half hours later Berice reached home. She 
found Harry in bed. He had ruptured another vessel, and 
was momentarily expecting a visit from the doctor. And 
his querulousness and impatience and sorrow for himself had 
descended on him again like a heavy cloud. 

“ Oh, you’ve come ! ” was his blunt greeting. . . . 

“ My poor love ! ” she murmured, bending over him. 

The hope he expressed that she had travelled in comfort 
was a very perfunctory courtesy. “ I don’t suppose you’ve 
had any dinner either,” he said fretfully. “ Better leave me 
and go and get some ; it’s no good having two crocks in the 
house.” 

‘‘I’ve ordered some ; it will be ready presently. — Poor 
boy ! ” 

“You look very well,” he said, almost resentfully. 

“ Oh, I wish you were ! ” she sighed. 

The doctor arrived as she was half-way through her 
meal. She had a few words with him, and then he went 
up to Harry’s room. A quarter of an hour later he sought 
her again. 

“You must get your husband away without loss of time,” 
he said. “ In London he’ll just die. There’s no cause for 
alarm if you get him away at once, but he must do no work, 
and must be kept perfectly quiet. Quiet in his mind too, you 
understand ; I must look to you for that. Is he worried 
about anything ? *' 


LONDON 287 

Berice said that he was worried . . . she murmured 
words about the * reconstruction.’ . . . 

“ He mustn’t worry. There’s no reason why you should 
either if you do as I say. Keep him perfectly quiet, and if 
possible contented. Worry’s probably done a good deal to 
bring this on. Don’t let him raise his arms suddenly either. 
. . . Can you take him at once ? ” 

“ The moment you say he’s fit to move.” 

“ Very good. And let me see : he’d better have a nurse 
too ; I’ll send you one. If he can remain away the whole 
winter so much the better. He mentioned Algiers ; that will 
do excellently. Keep him quiet and easy in his mind, and 
promise me you won’t worry either. ...” 

That same evening Berice began to prepare for their 
departure. Luckily she had brought back from her wedding 
trip a French maid, and to have somebody about who spoke 
better French than her own would simplify many things. 
The doctor came again on the following day, and each day. 
His words, like those of the telegram that had summoned 
her home, were cast in the form of reassurances, with dis- 
quieting meanings behind them. The nurse arrived, a thin, 
sandy Scotchwoman, and already the French maid was 
busy booking sleeping-berths and buying necessaries. On a 
Wednesday morning in September they were ready to start. 
Midday found them on the departure quay at Dover, and 
Harry, rugged and shawled and cushioned, was made com- 
fortable on the deck. They reached Paris in time to dine, 
and then a couple of taxies took them to the Gare de Lyon, 
for they were passing straight through to Marseilles. They 
entered the train ; it moved out through the network of 
tramway-like metals ; an hour later the sun went down 
behind the poplars of Sens ; in the wagon-lit the hood was 
drawn over the lamp; and Harrison Emney slept badly, 
attended constantly by his wife, and visited from time to 
time by the Scotch nurse who came in from the adjoining 
compartment. 


XXV 


I T was doubtful whether he clearly realized how ill he was. 

Had he done so different thoughts would probably have oc- 
cupied him. As they sped in the darkness southwards through 
the French provinces he made a fresh demand on Berice 
every half-hour ; and then, as Berice, with the little portable 
spirit-lamp which she affixed to the side of the compartment, 
prepared a cup of broth for him, he changed abruptly and 
declared that he paid a woman to do that sort of thing and 
that she had better send for the nurse. But the presence of 
the nurse would scarcely have lightened Berice’s duties ; 
the Scotchwoman might just as well be allowed to sleep ; 
and Berice bore his complaining without allowing her own 
mental and physical distress to be seen. 

“ Where are we now ? ” he asked, for the tenth time at 
two o’clock in the morning as the train slowed up. 

“ Autun, I think.” 

“Not at Lyon yet — what an insufferable night ! ... If 
we’re stopping you might send that maid of yours to see if 
there’s any fresh milk to be had ; that other stuff’s sour.” 

“ We’re not stopping,” she said, as the train moved forward 
again ; and he fumed. 

“ Might as well stop as crawl at this pace ; do they call this 
a rapide, I wonder ? ” 

“ Drink this, dear, and then try to sleep,” she said, giving 
him the cup of broth. 

“ Don’t spill it all over my hand. . . . And can’t you shade 
that light a little more ? . . .” 

Presently he dozed again ; but she, alert to his slightest 
movement, only closed her eyes to rest them. 

Though he did not know how ill he was, she had already 
288 


LONDON 289 

looked full in the face of the worst that could happen. The 
repeated small haemorrhages, the empty reassurance of the 
doctor’s words, the care that had been so insisted on, these made 
it a point of mere prudence to be prepared. And her anxiety 
was the greater that she knew it to be beyond her power to 
do what the doctor had told her she must do — guarantee his 
tranquillity of mind. She now knew less than ever whether, 
when he closed his eyes at night, he would open them again 
to respite and peace or to fresh aspects and combinations of 
the horror that plagued him. She had no power of direction 
over his moods. At a word, at a look, he was off. And occa- 
sionally it was she herself who all unwittingly set him off. 
She could not speak, in any connection whatever, of gentle- 
ness and forgiveness but he was reminded of the innumerable 
times when she herself must have stood in need of gentleness 
and forgiveness ; a remark dropped in a mood more practical 
and braced equally brought up the whole dreary thing ; 
and if she did not speak at all he was as likely as not to 
interpret her silence as indifference. And he fed horribly 
on his own thoughts — but no : they fed on him. It was not 
a rock that had been dropped into the garden of their lives ; 
it was rather some malignant, hideous growth, that put out 
suckers and feelers and fastened on all that came within its 
reach. The ordinary rubs of life invade a man as it were 
from the circumference of him, and rarely have power to 
carry his central stronghold by assault ; but this enemy 
reduced the citadel, like a plague, from within. It drove the 
defenders forth, scattered them, and destroyed them in detail. 
He had been anxiously preoccupied to be strict and just ; 
an excess of strictness and an intolerable justice had now 
become his monomania. . . . 

Yet there are hours in which even the Devil no longer has 
power over the damned, and it was in those hours that, 
watching her chance, she could still soothe and console him. 
In those hours he acknowledged, with freely-flowing tears, 
that she had left nothing unattempted, had refused no meek 
and dignified submission. In those hours he reproached 
none but himself, sought to fix his mind on past errors of his 
own, begged for her patience and pardon, and she could only 

19 


290 THE EXCEPTION 

,murmur over him and caress his head within her arms until, 
exhausted, he slept. 

And probably the next morning his eyes would open again, 
not on those fair meads of thousand-flowering charities, but 
on the grim, red-lighted apparatus of the torture-chamber 
again. 

It was not, however, on the corded and pulleyed rack, but 
on the smaller supplementary devices of deviltry, that he 
opened them as the day overtook them in the region of the 
Puy-de-Dome. He had slept through the short stop at Lyon. 
Berice had softly raised the blinds that she might look out 
on the broad Rhone and away to the sea of craters of the 
giant range. She had not known that he was awake ; the 
first she knew of it was that he made a totally unexpected 
remark — a remark on Mollie Enright. 

“You seem to be getting pretty intimate with her,” he 
said. “ I hope you’re observing a certain wish of mine.” 

“ I am, dear,” she replied, bending over him. “ Am I not 
to have a good morning kiss ? ” 

He accepted her kiss barely with patience, and presently 
spoke again. 

“ Oh ! That’s all right, then. I was afraid you might 
have forgotten something.” 

“I’ve forgotten nothing, Harry,” she said quietly, stopping 
for a moment in the ordering of her hair before a travelling 
mirror. 

“ So much the better. I merely mention this so that there 
shall be no mistake. I’ll not have my reputation put in 
peril for the sake of any false delicacy.” 

“ I shall not forget, Harry.” 

“ Very good. I’m not saying you do forget. But don’t 
talk as if the thing was impossible, that’s all. You’ve had me 
laughed at once — since we were married too ” 

The unhappy man fought with himself even in saying the 
words, but the hooks were in his flesh again. She knew 
what he meant had happened since their marriage : he meant 
Bartholomew. ... It was a delectable variation from the 
major torment. . . . 

He had known that sooner or later it would come, that 


LONDON 


291 

hour in which the thing itself would appear less than that 
the thing should be known — and here it was, punctual to its 
appointment. His reputation, his reputation. ... It was 
for his reputation that he groaned. . . . Ah, how dearly he 
had prized that — and somewhere in the world a man went 
his way chuckling at him ! . . . * A man ? ’ Nay, more than 
one ! Several men — in his self-flagellation he made nothing 
of it that he lumped Neill, Bunny, a writer of poisonous 
poems, and a renegade off to Canada together — several men 
laughed in their sleeve at him ! He ground his teeth. Ah, if 
the thing might but come back on them ! . . . “ What, such 
a fuss over such a trifle ? ” said the eaglets, the philosophic, 
the broad-minded ones of the novels and plays. Ah, if but 
the boot were on the other leg — if some of their philosophy 
and breadth of mind could but be brought home to their own 
doors ! It would soon be seen who was the possessor and the 
tyrant then ! Others’ griefs are easily borne — Emney, 
grinding his teeth, wanted to smile at the smilers for a change ! 
... In the meantime he would take very good care that 
that select band of smilers was not added to ! Add a woman 
to that lot ? Let her attempt it ! . . . She had not, in fact, 
attempted it, but that made no difference : let her attempt 
it ! . 

But she did not know his thoughts. She was speaking to 
him as he lay there, beside himself with rage. She was 
asking whether she should not make his chocolate. 

“ No ! ” he cried. Then, by a violent effort mitigating the 
sharpness of the tone, “ No ; I don’t want any ; please don’t 
talk ; I want to be let alone,” he added. 

But, wearily, she had now seen. She had begun to know 
it by heart. 

“ Don’t think, dear,” she begged him. “ Give your mind 
a rest, and let me make your chocolate.” 

“ No. I can wait till Miss Burn is up. Let her earn her 
money.— Has Mrs. Enright— I don’t mean have you said 
anything to her, but has she tried to get anything out of 
you ? ” 

“ No,” Berice replied, wincing at the wound so savagely 
given to her friend. 


THE EXCEPTION 


292 

“ What do you think — think she thinks, I mean ? ” 

“ Dear, dear— I don’t think anything,” Berice moaned. 

“ What do you mean by that ? That you haven’t thought 
about it, or that you think she doesn’t think anything ? ” 

But suddenly her brows went sharply upwards as she saw 
him still teasing the nerve. 

“ Harry,” she cried sharply, “ put it out of your mind ! 
It’s dangerous, dangerous ! You’re to have perfect rest, and 
how can you if you let these things have their way with you 
like this ? ” 

“ Eh ? . . . Yes, I suppose the doctor did say that. . . . 
But I don’t know that it matters very much. I’m as well 
out of the way. I’m only cumbering the ground. . . . Who 
else was there at that place besides you and Mrs. Enright ? ” 

“ Harry ! ” she implored. 

“ Neill and Hartopp, I suppose ? ” 

“ Only those, and Mrs. Enright’s aunt ” 

“ H’m ! Hartopp, of course. Of course, he'd be there. I’ve 
very little doubt that ” 

But if he was about to say anything about Bunny the 
entrance of the Scotch nurse prevented it. Miss Burn per- 
formed her morning duties, and then began to make choco- 
late and to take rolls and butter and cold viands from the 
basket. Berice stepped out into the corridor. The high 
terraced vineyards of Montelimar were flying past, terrace on 
terrace, their haze pierced through with the morning sun. 
Behind her, beyond where Miss Burn was making prepara- 
tions for breakfast, the Rhone rolled turbidly through the 
high forests of the Ardeche. The olives and almonds were 
already beginning to dispute the possession of the golden 
land with the vines ; by and by oranges would supplant the 
dust-grey olives ; exhilaratingly the rafiide rushed down the 
noble valley ; but Berice saw nothing. She wept, quietly, 
without restraint, so that the tears ran down her face as a 
rain-storm runs down a pane. It was not for herself, not for 
him, that she was weeping now. She and he were past weep- 
ing for now. She was weeping for that new, budding, tender 
thing, now killed, that she had hoped might have come of his 
magnanimity and her own faithfulness. . . . 


LONDON 


293 

Yes, it was killed. The burden had been too much, not for 
his willingness, but for his strength, and their marital hopes 
lay in ruins about them. The thing had a fatal perfection. 
What the main fact spared the derivatory ones seized upon, 
and no duty nor service could now stay the ravage. Each 
morrow, for as many morrows as there might be, would but 
repeat to-day. Love and trust were dead. For him, at least, 
she had killed them. . . . 

She glanced over her shoulder into the carriage. He was 
talking to the nurse now. He seemed to have taken to her 
for her Scottish appearance and her northern accent, and 
they were talking about Dumfries and Kirkcudbrightshire ; 
she heard them as the terraced vineyards sped, all blurred 
and drowned, past her eyes. They knew, the nurse and 
Harry, places, and even people, in common ; the Scotch- 
woman even knew by name this son of Emney’s mother’s 
cousin for whom Harry intended to make some provision in 
his will ; he was in a shipping office in Glasgow, if the nurse 
remembered rightly ; Robertson his name was ; and his 
father had been one of those Robertsons of Lanark, not the 
new Robertsons, whose boys all did so well as doctors and in 
the Church, but the old lot . . . old Donald’s lot. . . . 

And there unfolded again before Berice’s eyes Harry’s 
whole story — his mother’s sacrifice that he might enter the 
bank, her death when his rise “ had no longer mattered,” 
his steady climb, his Calvinistic morality. ... He had never 
lost the faith that there was, just above him, ever just above 
him, something not relatively, but absolutely good, strong, 
worth striving for, something with an essential merit the 

desire for which differentiates the ambitious from the snob 

He had kept this faith, this credulity perhaps, sweet and 
wholesome ; that ‘ cleverest thing he had ever done,’ his 
refusal to allow business entirely to engross him, had been 
part of the same aspiration ; and Berice did not doubt what 
a bright and shining thing his marriage one day must ever 
have been in his dreams. And he had married, and — this 
was the end of it all ! . . . She saw it. She saw that he saw 
it too, for his chattering to the nurse was nothing more than 
his babbling of green fields. He was re-living as he talked 


294 THE EXCEPTION 

with her the days when he had still had fair illusions, the 
days before the baubles, seized one by one, had turned to 
tinsel-dust in his grasp. Probably he was now wondering 
why he had not been content to remain where he was. . . . 

And from the recapitulation of his story she passed to 
her own. So wide a ruin, to have come from an hour or two’s 
egregious liberty ! So complete an unfulfilment in answer 
to her confident demands ! . . . But she had not the heart to 
retrace it all step by step ; instead she merely extended its 
scope a little. Knowledge of one heart is knowledge of most 
others ; degrees and proportions vary, but the humanity 
remains much the same ; and, knowing herself now, how 
many, many others did she not know ! 

For she saw clearly enough now that she had been only 
one of countless exceptions who, well warned beforehand, 
must still needs go through the deeps of suffering and the 
shallows of hopelessness merely to discover that they were 
not exceptional after all. Exceptional ? She almost smiled. 
.... No, she and her kind were not exceptional. Excep- 
tions were made of harder stuff. So rare a bird was the 
exception, at such wide intervals did he visit the earth, that 
his practical relation to the Life we all live was not a matter 
of great importance to the rest of us. A very little of him 
went a very, very long way. True, there might be no ignoring 
him when he did come ; destructive, devastating he was, 
bowing his back to the pillars of temples and perishing himself 
in the havoc he wrought ; he came with a terrible shout, 
and had a voice to shout with too. He did not creep round 
and destroy from behind ; his warning was thunder. 
When all was said, there is nothing conceivable to be thought, 
how ranging beyond bounds whatsoever, but some exception 
affirms or has affirmed it, vouching for it with his perilous 
soul ; but that was no concern of the weighty average of men. 

But these others ! The infinitesimal destroyers ! The 
nibblers, the burrowers, the crawlers about foundations ! . . . 
Much ease, little glory, in such destruction as that ! They 
did not so much as envisage the thing they sought to bring 
to nothing. They did not know that man makes no mightier 
thing than his Law. Law to them was license to do each as 


LONDON 


295 

it pleased him in his own little hole. No rumours of majesties 
and splendours penetrated to where they mined. . . . And if 
they, even they, did feel the need of a rule and an admonition, 
and took it., upon themselves to warn, their very forbiddances 
were hair sanctions and their warnings almost invitations. 
By both heightened affirmations and total exclusions, they 
falsified Life. Cleopatras — or at the least Carmens — grew 
on every bush for them, Messalinas were three a penny, and 
if not the magnificence, at least the sordidness was within 
reach of all. . . . And — though Berice’s apprehension of 
this was hardly more definite than the sight of the rushing 
landscape before her eyes — their novels and plays ! These 
so disregarded the great average of Life’s likelihood that in 
the result nothing was propounded save the highly probable 
exceptionalness of everybody who breathed. To the lamps 
of this art the nocturnal things blundered like buzzards in a 
deep twilight. That the rebelling heroine might run her 
go-as-you-please, the whole ordered handicap was to be dis- 
organized ; that she might be invested with an impossible 
rightness, others, neither exceptionally stupid nor exceptional 
in that they considered themselves above the law, were 
asked to put themselves in the wrong. “ Live and let live ” 
was the cry, and the nobler cry, “ Live and help to live,” 
was forgotten. . . . 

And when they did obey, these nibblers and borers, it was 
with a contemptuous acquiescence the merit of which did 
not extend beyond themselves. They urged others to a course 
for which they themselves lacked the courage, and the ques- 
tion still remained whether even disobedience, committed 
with a sense of the divinity of the bidding, was not a better 
thing than a merely technical concurrence that denied that 
divinity. There are — if a strain may be put upon sacred 
words — two ways of looking at the parable, “ Sir, I go. . . .” 
And the shining words of their banners again ! ... It was 
as if they had just heard of the charities and mercies that 
others had never forgotten. . . . 

And did they think, when all was done, that they were 
doing anything more than setting up in the place of a tried 
and easy and tolerable convention one that was untried and 


296 THE EXCEPTION 

intolerable ? Did they think that laws could ever be made 
in the interests of the breakers, rather than in those of the 
observers of them ? Their newness, their super-divinity ! 
. . . Then Berice’s thoughts took a swift and sickening leap. 
If these things were so, any unexceptional man would be 
able to say to any blessedly ordinary woman, as had bee’^ 
said to herself : “ Come away from this damned frigid England 
— come away to a place where men and w.omen can love as they 
were meant to love ! ” It might, supposing her own child 
should prove to be a little girl, happen that . . . 

Oh, how the burrowers and inglorious destroyers, like the 
man who had uttered those words, must hate England ! 
They accepted from England all that England would give 
them — a trust too foolish, a protection too generous, an 
honour they had never earned — and how they hated her ! 
Suppose England, one day opening her eyes, should in return 
see them for what they were ? Suppose England . . . 

“ I beg pardon, Mrs. Emney ” 

It was the nurse, passing out of the carriage with a basin 
in her hand. “ Breakfast is ready, Mrs. Emney,” she said. . . 

The tears had dried on Berice’s face, and her weeping had 
eased her heart. She re-entered the carriage, sought her 
dressing-case, bathed her eyes without attracting Harry’s 
attention, and then sat down to preside at the basket. . . . 
They had left Orange before the repast was finished. 

Orange, Avignon, Tarascon. . . . Marie, the maid, a little 
Parisienne, had come in, and was ecstatic at seeing so much 
of her own country. At Arles she descended to send a tele- 
gram announcing their approach, and then, climbing into 
the voiture again, looked with eyes that shone like the shin- 
ing etangs for the first glimpse of the Mediterranean. It came, 
a wedge of blue that was immediately shut off again as the 
train plunged into a tunnel. . . . When next they saw it 
it was over the sheds and sidings and goods yards of Mar- 
seilles. 

Of the party, Marie the maid alone possessed much French 
that was not academic, and to her had been left all arrange- 
ments for the two days they were to spend in Marseilles 
before taking the company’s boat. She had reserved their 


LONDON 


297 

rooms from Paris ; she now secured a couple of fiacres, and, 
seated in the second one with the Scotch nurse, was consult- 
ing a business directory, pp. “ Medecins et pharmaciens.” 
Berice had preferred not to undertake the sea voyage without 
a previous consultation. . . . 

It was as they drew near their hotel, one that looked down 
the Cannebiere, that Berice turned her head quickly towards 
a voiture that passed them. Harry saw her turn. 

“ Somebody you know ? ” he asked. 

“ I’m not sure,” Berice replied. “ It looked awfully like 
Mrs. Finch-Ommaney and Celia Chester. Did you see 
them ? ” 

“ I shouldn’t know them if I did.” 

“ Of course. You never met them. I forgot.” 

But the mere mention of the detested name sufficed to 
set him off into a fit of brooding that lasted until they reached 
the hotel. 

It was indeed Mrs. Finch-Ommaney, accompanied by 
Celia ; Berice encountered them that same afternoon on the 
stairs of the hotel. Celia ran to her with a little cry and kissed 
her warmly, but Mrs. Finch-Ommaney’s lips shaped uncordial 
endearments and barely touched Berice ’s brow. After 
exclamations of astonishment Celia told Berice that she and 
Mrs. Finch-Ommaney were on their way to Egypt. 

“ And you, Berice dear ? ” said Mrs. Finch-Ommaney, 
looking nonchalantly elsewhere. 

“ To Algiers. I have my husband with me. He’s ordered 
to winter abroad.” 

“ What a pity we can’t all go together ! ” said Mrs. Finch- 
Ommaney, with no insupportable regret in her tone. 0 We 
were to have left yesterday, but I wanted to see the port my 
boy sailed from,” she continued fluently, in a rather high 
tone. “ We drove down to the Quai this morning. An 
Indian boat was just starting, and I’d taken a map. They 
pass Corsica, and go through the Straits of Messina. We 
go by Malta and Alexandria. It was wonderful.” 

She did not say what was wonderful ; perhaps she meant 
it was wonderful that her living feet should be treading the 
same ground that his dead ones had trodden. A year had 


THE EXCEPTION 


298 

brought her sorrow to the perfection of sickly mellowness ; 
she now idolized it completely ; and Berice wondered whether 
Celia had been with her all the time. 

She learned, that same evening, that she had not. Berice 
and Harry had dined in their own room, but after dinner 
Harry had dozed, and Berice had wandered down into the 
dining-room. There she met Celia. The two women found a 
palm-sheltered corner at the turn of the stairs. They talked. . . 

“ No,” Celia said, in answer to Berice’s question. “ I left 
soon after your marriage — within a month, anyway. — And 
oh, my dear, the oddest chance ! A man turned up — it was 
actually on the evening of your wedding day — who was 
taking a walking tour round the Dales, and he’d happened 
to see poor Lai’s portrait in the church, and — would you 
believe it ? — he’d known him in India ! ” 

Berice shivered slightly. “ Been in his regiment, perhaps,” 
she said presently. 

“ No,” said Celia ; “ at least he didn’t say so ; he’d just 
met him somewhere or other, I suppose ; Murchison, I think 
he said his name was. Mrs. Finch-Ommaney would have 
asked him to stay, I fancy, but unfortunately he had to leave 
that very night. I left them together to have a talk, and I 
rather fancy — I don’t know, of course ” — Celia dropped her 
voice — “ that he borrowed some money of her. But wasn’t 
it odd ? ” 

It was, perhaps, not so odd as it seemed to Celia, and 
Berice felt for a moment a stirring of now dusty memories 
. . . but there ; it didn’t matter ; the poor devil was in 
Canada by this time, starting afresh. . . . 

“ And how is — she ? ” Berice asked by and by ; and Celia 
pursed her lips. 

“ Oh, I don’t know. I can’t make her out. Until a fort- 
night ago I’ve not seen very much of her, you see. ... I say, 
Berice,” she suddenly asked in a puzzled voice, “ is there 
really anything in these things — mediums and clairvoyants 
and all that ? I mean, is it just guessing, or do they really 
know anything ? ” 

“ Ah ! . . . It’s come to that, has it ? . . .” 

“ I don’t quite know,” Celia replied, “ but she saw some 


LONDON 299 

of these people in London, and — and I think it’s rather — 
rather black-velvety, from what she said. . . .” 

Berice sighed. It did not, however, surprise her that to 
the other accessories of grief Mrs. Finch-Ommaney had added 
the devices of the thaumaturgist. 

“ Yes,” she said absently, “ I thought it would end in 
that. She hates me,” she added. 

“ Berice ! ” murmured Celia with reproach, but also with 
embarrassment. . . . “ She found you a little unsympathetic, 
perhaps, that’s all. But,” Celia became more embarrassed 
still, “ she did say — I hope you won’t be hurt, dear — I think 
it’s very stupid of her, and please don’t mind — she did say 
that she’d rather not meet your husband. ... He won’t 
think it very odd, will he ? The time’s so short, you see — 
we leave to-morrow — you can make some excuse ” 

“ I think,” said Berice slowly, “ that you may make my 
husband’s compliments, and his apologies that he’s not well 
enough to see her before she goes. — All right, Marie, I’ll come 
in a moment ” 

The maid had come to fetch Berice away. She said good 
night to Celia, and left her. . . . 

It did not please Harry that Berice had taken it upon 
herself to make his excuses to Mrs. Finch-Ommaney, and he 
made his displeasure felt. He would very much have liked 
to meet Mrs. Finch-Ommaney, he said. . . . Berice urged 
that the time was so short. ... It was a discourtesy to a 
Cotterdale neighbour, he grumbled. . . . She could not tell 
him that Mrs. Finch-Ommaney did not wish to meet him. . . . 
He passed to anger — it had been a very special desire of 
his, he cried, to meet Mrs. Finch-Ommaney . . . and there 
was, on his part at least, a scene. It left him, at the end of a 
quarter of an hour, breathless and spent ; when she thought 
it was all over he broke out again more violently ; and she 
grew alarmed. 

“ Harry ! ” she cried sharply. “ Don’t be so violent ! A 
trifle like that is nothing compared with ” 

But her cry had come too late. His head had fallen back, 
and his hand fumbled pitifully for the handkerchief under 
his pillow. His mouth protruded, the veins of his neck and 


3 oo THE EXCEPTION 

temples were swelled. Hurriedly she gave him the handker- 
chief. . . . 

When he dropped it a minute later it was again marbled 
with the telltale red. 

She looked distractedly round for a bell, and then ran to the 
door and called. Marie was bidden to fly for a doctor at once. 
She returned with one in a quarter of an hour. Marie formed 
one of their consultation perforce, and she translated to 
Berice the doctor’s words. ... It was necessary, yes, but 
necessary absolutely, that Monsieur should remain tranquil — 
aucun mouvement — my God, yes ! It was of a gravity. . . . 
Madame spoke of sailing ? There was nothing, it was neces- 
sary to understand, nothing so impossible in the world. It 
was the invitation to death. Monsieur must not sail. Mon- 
sieur must have a garde-malade ; Madame, that could be 
seen, was herself broken with fatigue ; a garde-malade should 
be sent that moment -meme. . . . 

“ Tell him we have one,” said Berice dully. 

Ah, so much the better, the doctor continued. Madame 
also must rest — the necessity announced itself. The doctor 
would call again in the morning — he would prefer to be 
allowed to bring a confrere — Madame would pardon him 
that he insisted on this 

Marie interpreted the doctor’s instructions to Miss Burn, 
who had entered ; the doctor trusted all would be well, and 
would call again in the morning accompanied by a very 
distinguished confrere. ... He left, and Berice helped Miss 
Burn to pack Harry’s pillows, and then retired with a heavy 
heart to her own room. She was indeed broken with fatigue. 
She went to bed, and slept immediately the sleep of the 
dead. 

She was in Harry’s room betimes in the morning. He had 
hardly moved. He whispered something in which she dis- 
tinguished the words “ Sudden . . . manager . . . apologize,” 
and she gathered that he wished her to explain his state to 
the manager of the hotel and to apologize for the trouble 
he was giving. She kissed his forehead, and then left him 
in order to do so. 

In the vestibule she met the manager ; he was escorting 


LONDON 301 

Mrs. Finch-Ommaney to the foot of the stairs. Apparently 
she had been paying her bill, and her trunks and bundles 
awaited the porter. She stopped, seeing Berice, and the 
manager bowed and retired. 

“ I hope your husband has had a good night,” she said, 
and then, without a pause, continued. “ I wanted a word 
with you, Berice. ... I don’t know whether I ever thanked 
you expressly for coming to stay with me so soon before 
your marriage. Let me do so now. It was sweet of you, 
under the circumstances.” 

For a moment Berice stared. * Under the circumstances ? * 
. . . What circumstances ? Did Mrs. Finch-Ommaney think 
she had marked down Harrison Emney as her own on sight ? 

“ You meant it kindly, most kindly,” Mrs. Finch-Ommaney 
continued ; “ but — under the circumstances, as I say — 

there’s no reason we should pretend it was a great success. 
If you think it was, I must still hold the contrary view. 
Not that I expect you to understand me fully when I say 
that there are probably lights that you haven’t got ” 

For a moment Berice stood wondering whether it was 
among the ‘ lights she hadn’t got ' that, having seen Lionel, 
she should have been able to content herself with the lower 
level of a Harrison Emney. 

41 Knowledge of things is vouchsafed to us through a few 
chosen channels,” Mrs. Finch-Ommaney continued. " I 
know you are inclined to be sceptical about these channels, 
so we’ll not press the matter ; but you’ll admit that it is 
at least possible you’re mistaken. There are more things in 
heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy, 
you know.” 

" Dear Mrs. Finch-Ommaney ” Berice began with out- 

stretched hands. 

“ It's no good denying it,” Mrs. Finch-Ommaney pursued 
loftily. “ What we know we know. It doesn’t lessen our 
knowledge that somebody else doesn’t know we know. 
That’s all I wish you to understand. I shall always be glad 
to see you at Undershaws when you are in the neighbourhood. 
Please convey my regrets to your husband that I haven’t 
seen him. I think you said he was better ? Things might 


302 THE EXCEPTION 

have been very different, but that’s past. . . . Bon voyage 
to both of you.” 

She inclined her head and passed up the stairs. Mechani- 
cally Berice murmured a “ Bon voyage ” ; then she made her 
explanation to the manager of the hotel, and went upstairs 
again like one in a dream. 

What had Mrs. Finch-Ommaney meant ? Anything, or 
nothing ? Table-rapping, or — Walker ? Knowledge that 
what might have been had not been — or that it had been ? 
Blind guessing, or certitude ? . . . ‘ What we know we 
know, and it does not lessen our knowledge that somebody 
else doesn’t know that we know.’ What did she know? 
. . . Whatever she knew, Celia, it was clear, knew nothing. 
. . . And then, again, she had hoped that Berice would call 
on her. Perhaps that was a way — it would certainly have 
the effect — of hinting that she need not call on her ? Perhaps 
her idea, whatever it was, was but one of a thousand that 
ranged in her weak and empty head ? Perhaps — perhaps 

But why trouble ? Though Berice had asked her outright 
she would never, never have told. She was the kind of 
woman it would please to refuse to impart knowledge merely 
because somebody else wanted to share it. . . . 

Not but that she might, had it not been for Harry, have 
known all ; Berice would not have minded. For it did not 
matter now. The doctor had come again, accompanied by 
his very distinguished colleague, and, if the look on their 
faces meant anything, nothing now greatly mattered. They 
bade her have hope and courage, but that meant nothing ; 
doctors always did that. No, it did not matter — or would 
not matter presently ; for she knew, when the doctors 
peremptorily forbade all thought of sailing for many days to 
come, that the last scene of that tragi-comedy, her marriage, 
was approaching, and that it was not likely that Harry 
would ever leave Marseilles alive. 


XXVI 


ALTHOUGH he was forbidden to speak above a whisper, 
lx. and was so ill that the food had to be placed to his lips, 
even in so small a matter as whether she or the nurse at- 
tended him his mood still varied. Sometimes, when he dozed 
with Berice’s hand in his, she suffered her whole arm to be- 
come cramped rather than disturb him by withdrawing the 
hand ; and at others it became equally a point of tact with 
her to allow him, since he appeared to wish it, to take his 
medicine and grapes and specially cooked chicken from Miss 
Burn's hands rather than from her own. Even in her weari- 
ness Berice sometimes felt a twinge of something like jealousy 
of the Scotchwoman — jealousy that her professional minis- 
trations had the preference ; and more than once she packed 
her off with Marie for the afternoon in order that she might 
have Harry to herself. He now realized the gravity of his 
own state. 

And yet he did not realize that she was no longer the same 
woman who, believing at the moment what she had said, 
had involved herself and him in that disastrous bargain. He 
still treated her at times as if she was. He sometimes re- 
membered the words of her dead folly as if they had been the 
only words she had ever spoken, nor, when she remembered 
how it might be literally true that he had given, or at least 
shortened his life that she should escape, had she always the 
heart even to murmur a remonstrance. One day he ended a 
whispered generalization on the social scheme with the 
words, “ But, of course, you don’t think so — we always have 
differed about that.” 

“ Oh, Harry — can’t you see ? ” she murmured heart- 
brokenly. ” If you can’t I’ve no longer the heart to tell 
you. . . 


303 


304 


THE EXCEPTION 


“ Ah, you say so, but you don't really think so — we can't 
get away from our natures. That's been the real trouble — 
we're so different. We’re only dull, we others ; but you, 
you’re light and free. Nature put you in one lot and me in 
another, and I suppose neither of us could help it. It was 
just bad luck. . . . Well, we find these things out when it’s 
too late. — Where’s Miss Burn ? ” 

“ She’s gone out with Marie ; she was up half the night. 
— But don’t talk too much, dear.” 

“ I’m feeling stronger to-day. — I understand that woman 
somehow. Miss Burn, I mean. She doesn’t keep my mind 
always on the stretch. She’s easy to follow. She makes me 
think, sometimes, that if I’d it all to go over again I wouldn’t 
worry about things so much — would stay among my own 
people and let them be ambitious who were fools enough. I 
can’t help thinking that would have been the best for both 
of us.” 

She only shook her head as she stroked his brow, and he 
went on : 

“ It would have been better for you, at any rate. You’d 
have married Hartopp — I saw long ago that he was in love 
with you — you’d have married him, and we shouldn’t have 
tried, you and I, to bridge a gulf that was altogether too 
wide — altogether too wide.” 

“ I don’t regret it now if you don’t, Harry,” she mur- 
mured, aching for him to say that he didn’t regret it either ; 
but he did not seem to hear her. 

" Altogether too wide,” he repeated as if to himself. . . . 
“ Well, I suppose it’s like that general said about battles ; 
those who live their lives best are those who make the fewest 
mistakes. I made one. ...” 

“ Dear ! Dear ! ” she besought him. “ You know what 
the doctor said ! Let me put my arm under your head and 
we’ll just lie so, quietly and without thinking ” 

“ Yes, yes. . . .” 

“ There — there — close your eyes ” 

He closed them ; but in a minute or two he was whispering 
again. 

" What was I saying ? I forget. ... I think we’re all 


LONDON 


305 

children really ... all children, Berice ... all children. 
... I was a shy sort of boy — I used to take long walks alone, 
talking to myself, I remember. . . . There was a bridge I 
used to walk out to, nine or ten miles from home. . . . Miss 
Burn knows it. ... I used to go there. ..." 

He continued to murmur, with his eyes closed, about the 
bridge. Berice could not have told how she divined that he 
had been accustomed to meet a girl there. ... He smiled 
faintly, and for a minute she thought he was asleep, but 
presently he murmured again. 

" And I used to think what I'd do when I'd saved a hundred 
pounds. . . . Marry, I thought at one time . . . but I was 
always what they called ambitious. . . . Miss Burn knows 
the bridge. ..." 

“ S-sh ! " 

“ Yes . . . yes . . . that’s what I used to think. . . ." 

Presently he dozed ; and when, by and by, Miss Burn came 
in, her sandy hair all blown from a drive on the Corniche, 
Berice signed to her not to speak, and softly removed her arm 
from under Harry’s head. 

An hour later she sent for Miss Burn to her own room and 
asked how he was. The nurse replied that he was still asleep. 

“ Tell me the truth about him," said Berice quietly. 

For half a minute the nurse spoke in generalities, then 
Berice interrupted her with a gentle gesture. 

“ Yes, I know all that. What I want to know is, will he 
ever leave here ? " 

“ He’ll not be fit to go to England until well into the 
spring," Miss Burn replied. 

“ Do you think he’ll be able to go to Algiers at all ? . . . 
Ah, I see you don’t. ... Do you know of an English doctor 
here ? " 

Miss Burn did not know. 

“ Will you ask Marie to find out, please ? Then I’ll ask 
Dr. Griffe’s permission to have him in too. Thank you. . . . 
I hope you enjoyed your drive ? " 

Berice went out of the hotel that afternoon, alone. She 
crossed glaring open spaces and wandered along dark, plantain- 
shaded streets, careless where her feet led her, Presently she 


2Q 


THE EXCEPTION 


306 

found herself in a small, steep, ornamental park, with shrubs 
and palms and fountains. From a little terrace she saw, 
through her green veil, piercingly flashing in the pale, hot 
sky, the golden Virgin that dominates the port — the Virgin 
of Notre Dame de la Garde. Only a short street’s length from 
the foot of the garden lay the ascenseurs that took visitors 
up the precipitous rock on which the church stood ; and 
Berice stood for a moment in hesitation and then descended to 
the garden again. At the end of the street she took her ticket 
at a little kiosk ; she entered the lift, and a minute or two 
later she stepped from it again on to the blinding sunlit path 
that led to the ramparts. Lower down the hill a squad of 
soldiers passed ; she ascended flights of white steps, and she 
bowed her head as, within the inner rampart, an old nun passed 
her with the bucket of water she had drawn from the little 
pump. Berice did not immediately enter the basilica, but 
rested against the parapet, looking now over the town spread 
out below her now to the far-off upheaval of mountains, and 
again out over the islands — the glittering, wrinkled sea that 
Harry, she knew, would never cross on his way to Africa. 
She stayed there for a quarter of an hour, and then she 
began to walk again. The entry of the church yawned like a 
black cavern before her, and she mounted the steps and went 
in. 

She sat down on a chair, and did not immediately look 
about her ; instead, she allowed the boons of shade and cool- 
ness to descend upon her and invade her. She could not have 
told what had drawn her so high above the town to this 
guardian church of the port, but something deep within her 
told her that she knew she would not have been elsewhere. 
For three days she had not set foot out of the hotel ; now, 
on her first excursion, she had been led to a place where the 
votive tablets of countless Marseillois lined the walls and the 
models of rigged ships, touching and child-like offerings, 
moved slightly in the air, suspended on strings above her 
head. 

She had not come to the church to pray. She had come 
only that she might, unseen, let go for an hour her hold on 
everything— cease to think, to feel, to order her tired limbs 


LONDON 307 

and too long composed features. The chairs of the church 
were in rows, in sections of five or six ; she sat down on one 
of them with her arms and head supported by the back of 
the next ; and a dozen paces behind her the sunlight blazed 
like a furnace through the door by which she had entered. 

Harry was dying. ... It was no shock to her ; she seemed 
to have known it for a long, long time ; he was dying, and in 
a few days, a few hours, perhaps, it would be over. It was 
little more than a year since they had struck that fatal 
bargain of theirs, of freedom on her side and possessiveness 
and the desire for love on his ; and now that she no longer 
desired freedom she was to be made free indeed. . . . He 
knew it too, and his view of her approaching freedom had 
probably been expressed in the words, ‘ You'd have married 
Hartopp — I saw he was in love with you.’ The bitterness 
was lasting quite, quite to the end ; as he had said, there’s 
no escaping from our natures. It was as if he had said out- 
right, “ Marry Hartopp when I’m out of the way ; marry 
anybody ; any mistake you can now make will be trivial by 
the side of that you have made.” He was probably reviewing 
it all again at this very moment, lying in the hotel there, with 
Miss Burn subtly prompting that steady look back by her 
very accent and appearance — was probably at the beginning 
of the years again, rewriting the blank page of his life 
differently, allotting her to Bunny, himself to — whom ? . . . 
Berice thought she knew ; probably to some stupid, docile 
maid who might break laws but would lack the wit to call 
laws into question — for that was the fatal mistake ; not the 
disobedience, but the denial. She, this Lowland wench 
whom Berice had never seen, probably older than Berice 
herself by this time, would not, that she might have her 
private fling, have called the public good into question ; she 
would not have been clever enough. . . . Clever ? It was 
the clever people who made all the mischief. They flung a 
word broadcast, not knowing on what ground it would fall, 
and perhaps in a hundred places up and down the land it 
bore such fruit as had made all the mischief of her own story. 
And each place into which it fell formed a fresh centre and 
origin for new reproduction. And so it spread, and still 


308 THE EXCEPTION 

spread, until not the honour and faith of this man or that 
woman alone was infected, but the great Ideas of faith and 
honour caught it and withered. . . . Berice was discovering 
for herself the profundity of the word that man is made for 
Society, and is neither capable of living alone nor has the 
courage to do it. Better be stricken than outcast. That lass 
whom Harry had met long ago by * the bridge that Miss 
Burn knew * had been infinitely wiselier guided to submit 
than others were to rebel. . . . 

And Berice found herself presently meditating again on 
the rarity, even among these countlessly multiplied excep- 
tions, of The Exception ! She wondered now how she had 
ever supposed that it could be otherwise. For it was not pos- 
sible that everything could be equally for everybody. The 
finer the thing, the greater the skill and knowledge and 
reverence for the task that have gone to its making — yes, 
and the less obviously seen its meaning and function — the 
less may clumsy hands be laid upon it and rash, unskilled 
and slovenly-thinking minds devise its mending. Fine 
things are for the admiration, not for the handling, of the 
multitude. There is other work for the many, not less useful, 
and far more necessary for the saving of their own souls. 
Private safety was not difficult of attainment ; let these take 
it as it was given to them, and not, in their myriad-minded 
exceptionalness, seek to compass the destruction of that — be 
it law, custom, code, institution, convention, or whatever 
else of slow, strong growth — in which only resides the safety 
of all. . . . 

Berice, lying inert on her two chairs and wearily thinking 
despite her endeavours not to think, was not yet invaded by 
the spirit of the high sanctuary ; but presently, moving a 
little, she became more conscious of her surroundings. They 
were the votive tablets on the walls which she first saw; 
and then, again changing her attitude, she became conscious 
of the ships above her head. The tablets, squares of brown 
marble not more than a foot and a half long, were set edge 
to edge, crowded together far up the church walls, and each 
was a simple acknowledgment of the sparing of a son, a 
father, a husband, a brother, from the sea. The ships dangled 


LONDON 


309 

above her in tiers, three or four ships to each pair of strings, 
swinging a little from time to time — rude models, fashioned 
in the leisure hours between the puttings-forth, carved with 
chisel and penknife, doubtless while the fisherman had smoked 
his pipe and sought his little blocks and pulleys among the 
soup-plates and fragments of bread of the morningyn* evening 
meal. And they had come to the church with them in their 
hands, their humble spikenard and frankincense and myrrh. 
Tablets and ships, the church was full of them ; and only 
the gilded Virgin on the roof of the basilica rose higher, 
while far below, bowered with the shady plantains, lay the 
crowded streets of the town. . . . 

As Berice’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom of the place, 
and now and then a name or an initial seemed to start forth 
of itself from the paved and dedicated walls, vague and 
floating and unseizable images began to pass before her mind. 
She found no words for them, she did not see them in bounded 
and recognizable forms ; but she became increasingly con- 
scious of their immanence and significance. They were images 
of large and unchanging things, and, if she had had to express 
them, she would have done so in terms of thejplace — in terms 
of the modelled ships and the lettered squares of marble 
put there by the men whose work lay upon the solemn, be- 
guiling, treacherous sea. . . . And she seemed to be looking 
on at these men now as they hauled their nets or drew in 
the deep-lines : fought with the screaming devils of the 
squall : and then, when calm came, put out their nets again. 
Their work done, they returned home, and then, after many 
days, carved a child’s toy in the service of their Preserver. 

. . . Heroisms, doubts, fumbling and undexterous hands, 
watchings, vast desires, petty achievements, tears, vows, 
despairs, failures, and incredibly renewed resolutions — all 
these found no more expression than a carved “ En Recon- 
naissance, Marie ” that a monumental mason doubtless ran 
off by the day together, a rigged brig or barque that a child 
might push out over the surface of a pond. . . . And prob- 
ably the sea had spared fathers, brothers, husbands, sons, for 
a short time only, and would claim a good half of them at the 
last — had probably already claimed them. ... It was 


3 io THE EXCEPTION 

moving, moving. A catacomb of the bones of these could 
hardly have been more moving than these pious expressions 
of hopes that had found their fulfilment only in heaven. 
Was it worth while to dedicate ships already doomed, to 
render thanks for the life that had only been spared now to 
be taken later ? These names, these initials, to be read by 
eyes that had never seen the owners of them — this old, old 
piety, that left, as it were, in the mind no more than the 
odour of stale incense about the place .... was it worth 
while ? . . . 

The doubt filled Berice’s heart for long ; it seemed to her 
that it was not worth while. . . . Then the shadow lifted 
a little, and a thrill at which she unconsciously raised her 
head ran through her. . . . Again the shadow lifted ; and 
again came the thrill ; and then, grandly and suddenly, all 
doubt was swept away in a triumphant asseveration. The 
place was no catacomb, but a place of Life — of Life, Life, 
Life — in which the courage and faithfulness and reverence 
of men were imperishably enscrolled, undimmed, and splendid. 
Anything less than these had no victory. The boastful sea 
took men, but not manhood ; over men’s bones it rages 
throughout the years that bones are all of man that it gets. 
And man made it contemptuously welcome to them. He 
vowed his body as a possible sacrifice each time he put out 
through the surf or cleared the jetty-head in his barque. 
He died daily in the acceptance of the fact that he might not 
return. That of him which did not perish had its temple 
elsewhere, and faith and humility and hope and love were 
the four walls of it. 

And the peace of these things communicated itself to 
Berice’s heart. Ah, that that also might be so walled and 
fortified, though space be left within for but the tiniest of 
altars and the feeblest of flames ! . . . For that other Sea, 
of Life, that dances its wild saraband not over the bones, 
but over the dead hearts of men, had had power over her also. 
She had been at its mercy, and yet she had hung up no votive 
ship, had carved no emblem of thanksgiving that she had not 
been engulfed. For now that she stood removed from so 
much, and was presently to be removed from still more, she 


LONDON 


3i i 

knew how nearly she had been swallowed up. But for some 
Lady of Guardianship she had not survived. No need to 
inquire again how that safety had been accomplished, nor to 
tell herself that for her sake this life had been burdened and 
that shortened ; all such debts are vicariously quitted. It 
made no difference whether that sacred Fund from which 
payment had been made was the stable and basic goodness 
of Humanity, or whether indeed that Vicar was the adored 
Babe in the arms of the gilded Virgin that watched over the 
sea and town and mountains of Marseilles. She had her soul 
at last, and would not lose it again. . . . 

Then, with a little bewildered shock that she should be 
thinking unfamiliar things almost clearly, she saw more clearly 
still the whole meaning of those trivial ships and bald and 
devout tablets. Any man with baseness enough in his heart 
might smile at their childish symbolism — might show them 
to be imperfect — and might pull them down. It was but a 
cut with the knife of wit and cleverness. Nay, secular Time 
itself would pull them down. . . . But if they came down, 
Truth, ever heavy with the gestation of symbols, and with- 
out a parable hardly speaking to the multitude, would for 
all serviceable purposes come down with them. Only by 
symbols can the precious stuff of one heart be communicated 
to other hearts. Only so can warning of the world’s enemy 
be given. That enemy triumphs when man’s work is de- 
stroyed, for there is no work of man’s hands, done in reverence 
and fear, but is in some sort his symbol of the imperishable 
Essence within him and his wall and bulwark against the 
night of uninvention and chaos. The fiends of that outer 
region where there is no time because there is no human 
measurement of time, no space because all is void and without 
relation, never cease their assaults; and it is for man to 
guard his walls and towers and to slay the traitor and spy 
whom he finds in the heart of the citadel. And those who 
are not the captains and governors and engineers of the place 
must watch, and be thankful that in return for their watching 
they have their rations. That they may not be led into 
temptation must be their prayer— the temptation of a vain 
ambition and a responsibility their souls cannot meet. 


THE EXCEPTION 


312 

Berice now sought only to guard that flickering flame on 
the altar newly dedicated within herself, and to hang up 
perhaps a toy ship, or three simple words of gratitude that 
mercy had been shown her. 

She was almost lighthearted when she came out of the 
church again and took the dazzlingly white path to the 
ascenseur. She turned once to look at the flaming golden 
Virgin, and then the machine into which she had stepped 
began its steep descent, passing the ascending car half-way. 
She left the fortified rock, threaded narrow, shady streets, and 
then, coming into the Rue de Rome, boarded a tram. It 
stopped opposite her hotel, and she alighted. 

But opposite the door of the hotel she saw Marie, the French 
maid, standing bareheaded under one of the pavement trees 
with her hand to her eyes, looking this way and that. The 
maid saw Berice, and ran to her. 

“ Oh, madame — venez vite , venez vite ! . . 

“ Is he ? ” Berice could not get out the words. 

“ Non — non , non, non — mats montez, vite ! . . .” 

Berice caught up her skirts and ran to Harry’s room. 

The three doctors were there, the two French ones and the 
Englishman ; the English doctor supported him on one side 
and Miss Burn on the other. He was sitting upright in bed, 
and his breathing made the noise a hookah makes. From 
time to time he gasped a word. 

Berice’s arm slid into the place Miss Burn’s had occupied. 
He tried to say something to her. 

“ Don’t let him talk,” Berice heard a man’s voice say 
quietly and peremptorily. . . . “ A little more upright . , . 
very gently. ...” 

Minutes passed, in a silence only broken by that hookah- 
like noise of his breathing. Softly Miss Burn removed Berice’s 
veil and hat for her. Berice’s eyes looked a question into 
those of the English doctor ; his shoulders moved with a 
little acquired foreign movement. . . . “ Any moment,” 
Berice understood the gesture to mean. . . . 

Harry’s eyes were closed, but his head moved and his 
brows knitted slightly with each breath he took. “ Perfectly 


LONDON 


313 

still,” the English doctor murmured again. . . . Marie had 
sunk to her knees in a corner. Miss Burn had put her hand 
under the coverlets to the dying man’s feet. One of the 
French doctors was looking at his watch. 

Suddenly the English doctor muttered a hurried “ No, 
no ! . . Harry was trying to speak again. He didn’t 
seem to see Berice. His reddish-brown eyes looked out from 
their inflamed pink whites straight beyond the foot of the bed. 

“ No, no, darling ! ” Berice cried hastily, after the English 
doctor. . . . 

But already he was bringing broken words out. The low, 
hookah-like breathing had changed to the noise of a boiling 
pot. He gasped and bubbled. 

“ For — a blind — hour — ah, ah . . . for a — blind hour . . . .” 

“ More upright ! ” muttered the doctor between his teeth. 

“ — blind hour — forget — fulness — ah, ah, ah, ah. . . 

Berice did not know whether these words of his closing 
agony were for her or for himself ; she had no time to think. 
The English doctor had risen, stepped away and turned his 
back, leaving him now to her ; from the corner of the room 
Marie’s prayers sounded more loudly, and Harry had clutched 
at her neck. For a moment his eyes met hers ; his clutch 
tightened, and she called his name as he twisted in her arms. 
Then the end came. . . . 

“ Harry ! ” she cried. . . . 

Miss Burn had sprung forward. As he fell back she hur- 
riedly covered the lower part of his face with a napkin. 
Berice was aware of the English doctor at her elbow, quietly 
drawing her away. 

“ Come now,” he whispered in her ear. ..." I needn’t 
say that I’m entirely at your service,” he added, as he led her 
to the door. . . . 


XXVII 



HE events that followed immediately on Harry’s death 


JL — the scene in the cemetery at Marseilles, the return 
to the hotel to pack up, the rush, two days later, through 
the Cote d’Or, and the three hours in Paris and the crossing 
to Dover — presented themselves to Berice as a phantasma- 
goria, jumbled and without historical sequence. Only with 
her recital of them to Everard, who met her at Victoria and 
returned with her to the house on the Embankment, did 
they begin to fall into order. Nor would they have done so 
then but for the judicious prompting of her uncle’s questions. 

“ Poor chap, poor chap ! ” Everard sighed. . . . “ Well, 
you were lucky at the finish to have your French-speaking 
maid and to run across that English doctor.” 

“ Yes,” said Berice. “ They took it all off my hands. I 
was just made to lie down, and they did everything. . . Miss 
Burn’s decided to stay there, by the way. Dr. Clay said 
there was a good opening in Marseilles for an English nurse.” 

“A Scotch one,” Everard amended. “ They always leave 
Scotland to tell the rest of the world what a grand country 
it is. There’s always a bit of the auld burn-side about Scotch 
people.” 

“Yes,” said Berice musingly. . . . 

Her thoughts seemed to remain on the subject of the Scotch 
nurse, for presently she continued : 

“Yes. . . . It was Harry’s wish that I should make her 
a present, and the sum I gave her should start her handsomely. 
She would have liked to go into the Army, but she didn’t know 
anybody at head-quarters. Do you, by the way ? ” 

“ I can’t say that I do. Hartopp might. But you say 
she’s settling in Marseilles ? ” 


3H 


LONDON 


315 


“ Yes, she’s settling there,” said Berice absently. . . . 

As the day wore on Everard seemed a little uneasy about 
leaving her alone ; he murmured something about ‘ com- 
pany ’ and 4 taking her thoughts off it ’ ; and presently he 
asked whether she could put him up for the night. She 
could, and he wrote a note to his Bloomsbury hotel that his 
things should be sent on. 

“ That will be better,” he said. “ And if you’ll take my 
advice you’ll have a mustard bath and get off to bed. I’ll 
arrange about the other things that are to be done. ...” 

And then she knew that Everard’s latest jacket involved 
visits to executors and lawyers and the necessary formalities 
of the probate of a will. She smiled, kissed him, and retired. 

The jacket cropped up the next morning at breakfast. 
He asked questions, to which Berice could give only general 
answers. She gave him the name of Harry’s solicitors. 

“ Good,” quoth Everard, rubbing his hands. “ You can 
safely leave all that to me. I’ll attend to all that. I’ll go 
this morning.” 

“ Thanks, Ev. Shall you be back in time for tea ? I have 
Mrs. Enright coming this afternoon.” 

“ Oh, you won’t want me. You have your talk with Mrs. 
Enright. I’ll come back to dinner, I think.” 

“ Of course. I should be greatly obliged if you could stay 
here for the present.” 

“ I dare say it would be better,” Everard agreed. 

He kissed her, and presently went out as if he intended 
that probate of Harry’s will should be effected by midday 
or he would know the reason why. 

Berice had wondered a little at her own haste even as she 
had sent Mollie a note from Dover. A hundred times in the 
last few days Mollie’s face had intruded into her blurred and 
jumbled impressions of flying vineyards, chocolate snatched 
at French stations, and memories of that last scene in the 
hotel that looked down the Cannebiere ; and each time it 
had associated itself, for no very obvious reason, with the 
mood of that solemn hour she had spent among the ships 
and votive tablets of the church of Notre Dame de la Garde. 
She felt that something she could not precisely define, but 


THE EXCEPTION 


3i6 

none the less momentous on that account, depended thence- 
forward on the nature of her relation with Mollie. 

For there was a perfection of intercourse to be attempted. 
Hitherto they had communed only by looks, touches, subtle 
processes of mere proximity ; but now, by virtue of some- 
thing, she knew not what, that had happened to her, their 
intercourse demanded the beautiful garment of open expres- 
sion. By as much as speech was unrequired, so it now became 
important, as in some superfluities there resides a grace and 
lovely high decorum. She would hang up her poor toy ship 
in the temple in which, she knew, both she and Mollie served. 

Mollie came at four o’clock. Berice was sitting on a sofa 
in the drawing-room, and was in the act of rising when 
Mollie made a quick little gesture, crossed to her, and took 
her head between her hands and drew it to her shoulder. 
With some women the movement would have been the 
signal for an immediate outpouring, but Berice merely let 
her head sink into the place prepared for it and closed her 
eyes with a long, easy sigh. ... It was a couple of minutes 
before Mollie put Berice’s face back again, kissed it, and 
sat up. 

“ I needn’t say anything, dear ? . . .” 

“ No.” 

“ You know all I’d say.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Let me pour out tea. Put this cushion behind you. . . . 
Well, and how are you ? Let me look at you. . . . H’m ! . . . 
Well, I still think that under any other circumstances it 
would have been criminal folly in you to travel. ...” 

Miss Burn had told Berice the same thing. . . . 

A phrase at a time Berice told Mollie all the circumstances of 
Harry’s death. Once or twice as she did so Mollie’s hand 
sought hers for a moment. She ended. There was a long 
pause. Then, in a lower voice, she said : 

“ That’s all about that. Now I want to tell you something 
else.” 

“ Yes ? ” 

” I wanted to tell you long, long ago ; but I wasn’t al- 
lowed. I may do so now. That’s why I do so at once.” 


LONDON 


3i7 


“ What is it ? ” 

“ Oh, how I wanted to tell you ! ” Berice breathed, 

closing her eyes for a moment. 

" Tell me. . . ” 

It would no longer be a taking of a burden from her own 
shoulders and a laying of it on another’s. It had ceased to 
be a burden. Even the thing done, and never to be undone, 
does not become a burden for ever when we have found each 
for ourselves our hidden way of manumission. . . . 

Briefly, baldly almost, beginning and ending within five 
minutes by the clock, Berice told Mollie. 

Mollie sat, as she had sat throughout Berice’s recital, 
with her eyes apparently fixed on some distance beyond the 
opposite wall of the room. For a minute after Berice had 
finished she remained silent ; then she murmured softly to 
herself : 

“ It was that , then ! . . .” 

“ That,” said Berice. . . . “So you wondered ? ” 

“ Eh ? . . . Of course ; you knew I did.” Still her eyes 
looked through the opposite wall. 

“Yes,” said Berice. 

“You knew I wondered — and that I did more than wonder.” 

“ What more ? You guessed ? ” Berice asked. 

“ Oh, no, I didn’t guess, but ” — Mollie turned quickly and 
impulsively towards her — “ I cared — oh, you knew I cared ! ” 

Gently they kissed. — And that was the end of that. 

“ And so Bunny knew ! ” Mollie mused after a time. 

“Yes, he knew.” 

“ Poor Bunny ! . . . Will you tell me something else, 
Berice ? ” 

“ What ? ” 

“ Did Bunny ever ask you to marry him ? ” 

Berice shook her head. 

“ No. ... Of course, I guessed he’d spoken to you about 
>* 

me. 

“ Yes — in a way.” 

“ As much as he could without giving me away. I under- 
stand. I was very rough on him. Poor Bunny ! . . .” 


3 i8 THE EXCEPTION 

Mollie’s fingers had begun to move softly on the edge of 
the tea-tray, but her eyes were now on the carpet. Suddenly 
she looked up. 

“ Suppose he asks you to marry him now ? ” she asked. 

“ Oh ! . . ” 

“ He will.” 

“ So Harry seemed to think.” 

“ He will — I think I should if I were a man.” 

“ Dear ! . . . Well, I can only hope that he won’t.” 

“ Oh ? ” said Mollie rather quietly. “ Why ? ” 

Berice smiled and sighed. “ Bunny ? ” she asked softly. . . . 

“ Well ? . . .” 

“ Bunny ? . . . Oh, Mollie, you know without my telling 
you ! Poor, poor Bunny ! . . . But he wouldn’t under- 
stand. . . .” 

“ H’m ! . . . I thought you’d just been telling me that 
he’d understood all along.” 

Berice smiled again. “ Oh, that ! . . . Yes, he understood 
that ! He saw all the dreadful entanglement it was . . . oh, 
Mollie, Mollie ! ” She closed her eyes for a moment and her 
brow was drawn in pain even with the pale memory of it. . . . 
“ I mean, Bunny would never understand why I should have 
to refuse him.” 

“ H’m ! ” said Mollie again. . . . “ I can’t quite say I do 
either.” 

“Oh, yes, you do, but you won’t say so. It’s not — it’s 
not anything about having burdened one man and taking 
care not to burden another — it’s not that at all — and it isn’t 
an expiation, if that’s the word, either — it’s nothing of that 
sort ” 

“ That’s all what it isn’t,” said Mollie, with the faintest 
suspicion of a twinkle. “ It’s what it is that I’m waiting to 
know.” 

“ I know — but it’s so hard to put. What I mean is — I’m 
not saying what anybody else ought to do, you understand — 
you'd be quite wrong to do it, I dare say — it’s myself — what 
I feel I ought to do ” 

“Not marry Bunny. . . . Well, my dear, your talk’s so 
very much like his at present that T can’t help thinking 


LONDON 


319 

you’d make an excellent pair. . . . It’s your exquisite reason 
I’m waiting for.” 

“ Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know perfectly well what 
I mean — that I simply can’t ! If I’d thought you wouldn’t 
see that I’d never have told you.” 

“ You mean you won’t ? ” Mollie said, fairly twinkling 
now, but perhaps understanding better than she admitted. 

“ Very well — I just won't — there ! ” Berice declared, half 
vexed at the haltingness of her own exposition and half 
laughing at Mollie. “ Besides ” 

“ Besides what ? ” 

“ Well, there's . . . you know.” 

“ Of course there’s that. . . . When ? . . .” 

“ In May. . . .” 

Mollie nodded, and then shrugged her shoulders lightly. 

“ Well, I warn you that you’ll have some difficulty in 
making Bunny understand, that’s all ; it’s about as clear 
as mud to me. Anyhow, your soul’s your own affair — I’m 
going to look after the rest of you. . . . May, you say ? . . .” 

A few minutes passed. . . . Then Berice gave a little 
laugh. 

“ So you see,” she said. . . . “ But if it hadn’t been for 
that I think I should have taken up nursing — probably the 
Army branch. My uncle once said I should never make a 
nurse ; well, but for this I should have shown him. And 
that reminds me of another thing, Mollie. There’s Everard. 
And there’s Mrs. Finch-Ommaney and Celia Chester. Let 
me tell you. . . .” 

She related her meeting with Mrs. Finch-Ommaney and 
Celia in Marseilles. 

“ What ought I to do ? ” she concluded. 

Mollie took a full minute to reply, but when she did speak 
it was with decision enough. 

“ Nothing,” she said. 

“Not even — I told you how ambiguously she spoke — not 
even though she knows nothing at all ? ” 

“Not even anything. Say nothing. Nor to your uncle 
neither. What’s the good now ? ” 

Berice actually gave a little laugh of triumph. “ There ! ” 


320 THE EXCEPTION 

she exclaimed. “ Now do you see what I meant a moment 
ago ? ” 

“ The meaning’s still rather rarefied,” said Mollie 
demurely. 

“I’ll make you see. You advise me to say nothing to 
Ev nor Mrs. Finch-Ommaney. In other words, you advise 
suppression, concealment, hushing-up, all the horrible things 
I’ve been doing all along. Now could I, could I possibly do 
as you say unless the whole thing was ten thousand leagues 
behind me, and everything was so changed that even common 
honesty did not enter into the question ? ” 

“ H’m — m ! ” 

“ Or could you advise it ? ” 

“ Oh, I’m capable of any depravity for the sake of peace 
and quietness,” Mollie remarked. 

“ There — I knew you knew ! ” said Berice, with shining 
eyes. She knew that her heart and her friend’s were at one 
by virtue of the common denominator of all they held fine 
and dear. . . . 

“ Can’t you stay to dinner ? ” Berice urged when, half an 
hour later, Mollie rose. “ That is, unless ...” 

“ Thanks, but I think I’ll avail myself of the ‘ unless ’ . . . 
Murragh. . . .” 

“ Bless you both ! ” 

“ Such anticipations ! ” murmured Mollie, with worlds of 
comical difference between the perfect self-possession of her 
voice and the bashful attempt of her downcast eyes. “ Not 
till Christmas, anyway. . . . Well, I’m glad you don’t 
impose your notions of duty on me. Thanks for that. . . . 
Poor Bunny ! . . .” 

And with another “ Poor Bunny ! ” she took her leave, and 
Berice ordered dinner for herself and Everard only. 

With Everard’s appearance, a little before seven o’clock, 
it was instantly plain that something had gone wrong with 
the business that had occupied him during the day. He 
gave her a mechanical greeting. “ Well, Berice — Mrs. 
Enright been ? ” and then began to pace the hearth. Pre- 
sently he stood tugging at his moustache and looking down 
into the fire. Berice asked him whether he was going to 


LONDON 


321 

dress. “Yes, yes — in a moment/’ he said, and then began 
to pace the room again. 

“ Is anything wrong ? ” Berice asked. 

He stopped in his walk, stood before her, and looked at her 
gravely. 

“ I’m afraid there is,” he said. “ An extraordinary thing’s 
happened — a most unaccountable thing.” 

“ What is it ? ” she asked, already prepared to be alarmed. 

“I’ve been to see both your husband’s executors, and also 
his solicitors,” said Everard. 

“ Well ? ” 

But Everard was walking up and down again, muttering, 
“ Unaccountable, unaccountable ! ” Then once more he 
faced Berice. 

“ Did your husband say anything to you about the terms 
of his will ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes. What is it ? ” said Berice quickly. 

“ Do you remember what he said about its provisions ? ” 

She stated the provisions as far as she remembered them 
— Harry’s collections, the distant relative whom he had in- 
tended to include, and the general bequest of the bulk to 
herself. Already a nameless foreboding had come over 
her. . . . 

“ And when did he tell you all this — recently ? ” 

“ Within the last month or two. Oh, what is it, Ev ? ” 

Everard was walking up and down again. 

“ Had you quarrelled ? ” he next demanded. 

“ No — no — it couldn’t be called a quarrel — perhaps things 
might have fallen out more happily ” 

“ H’m ! . . . Well, unless it’s upset — some time must 
pass, it appears, before probate — what’s happened is this ” 

— Thereupon he told her. A new will had been made. 
She was not excluded from it ; nay, she participated hand- 
somely in it, as handsome goes ; three thousand pounds a 
year were set aside for her during her lifetime, the capital 
sum to await his child in reversion. But — it was at this that 
objects seemed to become suddenly dull and dark before 
Berice’s eyes — a like sum had been settled upon this remote 
relation in Glasgow he had seen only once, and smaller, but 


21 


THE EXCEPTION 


322 

still considerable, sums went to people with even fewer 
claims upon him. Everard had also learned during the day 
that the ‘ reconstruction ’ which was to have set him once 
for all free from business had been abandoned. . . . She 
hardly heard the rest. . . . 

She felt for a chair and sat down slowly on it. The new 
will must have been made immediately before they had left 
England. Her mind strove to grasp its provisions. . . . 

Not in their material significance ; ah, no, not that ; that 
would never have troubled her. A quite small proportion of 
three thousand pounds a year would have sufficed for all her 
material needs ; it was not that. It was, rather, that even 
in this posthumous revelation there appeared that division 
of his nature that, now inclining to love and weakness and 
sorrow and tears, and now stiffening again to justice inter- 
preted without clemency, had tormented him ever since that 
morning when, had he bidden her, she would have sought 
the revolver in the drawer in his dressing-room. He had 
treated her well enough, but it was for all the world as if he 
had carefully scrutinized her claim, grumbled at it, economized 
on it, docked it of an item here, queried another item there, 
referred it back debited with expenses and charged with 
interest at five per cent. In spite of all, she had not had his 
trust. A stranger whom he had seen only once was trusted 
equally with herself. As a dead man had grinned up at him 
from the grave, so from the grave he put a checking and re- 
straining hand on her. His last act had been, as far as he 
could, to ensure it that her punishment should be in per- 
petuity. . . . 

And he had abandoned the ' reconstruction * — she had 
proved such a disappointment to him that he had repudiated 
that ‘ cleverest thing he had ever done,’ and had intended 
to remain in business for the rest of his days. . . . 

“ And in the event of my marrying again ? ” she asked 
dully. This last revelation of his nature had numbed her. 

“ Nothing’s said about that,” said Everard. 

“ Nothing’s said. . . she repeated, as if it was a lesson. . . 

Narrow, misunderstanding, rabidly just to the last ! Re- 
solved that she should meet with scrupulously fair treatment, 


LONDON 


323 

have absolutely no cause for complaint ! He had counted 
up her sufferings — he had estimated that she had suffered 
to the exact amount of three thousand pounds a year ! Had 
he lived he might in time have written off her heartache and 
tears to the tune of another thousand. . . . 

And she knew, too, that, had he lived, the hour of gentle- 
ness and pardon would have claimed him again. . . . 

“ Nor was anything said about what would happen in the 
event of an attempt to set aside the will,” Everard was 
saying. . . . 

He suddenly seemed to Berice to be speaking from an 
immense distance — an immense distance. The dimensions 
of the room, too, seemed to have altered curiously, and a sort 
of grey mist was invading it from somewhere or other. . . . 

“ No — no, no — don’t contest it,” she muttered, swaying a 
little. . . . Everard had given a short exclamation, and had 
sprung to her side. 

“ Steady, Berice— steady ! Are you ill ? What’s the 
matter ? . . . Good gracious ! ” 

She had fallen from the chair, setting the fire-irons clatter- 
ing. Her body was twisted. She seemed in agony. . . . 

He saw what it was. He sprang to a bell and rang vio- 
lently. She still writhed. A servant appeared. 

“ Quick,” he cried, “ a doctor ! Send a couple of women 
up here — women, you understand — run ” 

Her journey, her emotion of the last few weeks, her spiritual 
release of that afternoon, and this last illumination coming 
on the top of all, had done their work. It was not to be, 
as she had told Mollie, in May ; it had come upon her now. . . 


XXVIII 


D URING three weeks Mollie nursed her, taking up her 
abode in the house ; and then she packed her off to 
Bournemouth for a fortnight, herself running down for a 
couple of week-ends. At the end of that time Berice re- 
turned home, completely restored to health. Thereafter, 
now that the course of her life was again changed, she was 
busy with many affairs. She had decided to leave the house 
on the Embankment ; and though, according to Harry’s 
will, it was left to her whether or not his collections became 
public property during her lifetime, she no longer wished to 
be burdened with the responsibility of them, and had already, 
with Everard, made preliminary arrangements for their 
transference. They were to go to Harry’s own town. Everard 
was waited on one morning by a couple of Scotchmen with 
a good deal of “ the auld burn side ” about them ; they 
took an inventory, and had lunch ; and in due course there 
reached Berice the town’s thanks enclosed in an oaken 
casket, with a blue satin cushion inside the lid. 

As long as he might but have a finger in the business, 
Everard was as happy in making away these bequests as 
he would have been in acquiring them ; but, though he 
made no remark, Berice knew very well what he privately 
thought of certain decisions she herself had come to. For 
she had told him that she intended to reserve to her own 
use no more of her property than would suffice to give her a 
nursing training, and already Sir John Hartopp had been 
given to understand that, manage matters as he liked, he 
must take it upon himself to see that there should be a place 
for her on the Army nursing list when she should be ready 
for it. Should she still be embarrassed with money, she 

324 


LONDON 


325 

anticipated little difficulty in being able to get rid of it once 
the secretaries of hospitals got her name upon their lists. 

And against the hums and haws both of Sir John and 
the Tracys, Berice received noble support from Mollie 
Enright. 

“ They say those command best who know how to obey, 
and I can give her an excellent character as a patient,” 
Mollie said. . . . “ Yes, it may be foolishness, Mr. Beckwith 
(I see that's what you’re thinking), but it’s her own special 
brand, and she won’t be happy without it. You think she 
ought to marry again. Well, there are more ways than one 
of bringing things to that pass. ...” 

And her innuendoes, and suggestions that young officers 
only married elsewhere when there no longer remained a 
young and attractive Army nurse unattached, lasted until 
Berice took her by the shoulders and fairly turned her out 
of the room. 

“ She can’t think of anything but weddings with her own 
so near,” said Berice. " Well, we must look to Murragh 
Neill to give her a shaking. ...” 

It needs to be said twice, if once saying is not sufficient, 
that Berice had not been allowed to make her decision with- 
out representations of the strongest nature from Bunny. 
During her illness he had called daily, and he had called again 
immediately after her return from Bournemouth. It had 
then appeared that what he had called for was to know 
" what all this nonsense was about. . . .” 

" This isn’t true what Mollie Enright tells me, that you’re 
going in for nursing ? ” he had demanded, in pretty much 
the tone he might have used had he heard that she was going 
in for tattooing or shaving her head. 

“ Quite true,” Berice had replied. “ I hope you’ve come 
to tell me what a charming nurse I shall make.” 

But Bunny hadn’t come to do anything of the kind. He 
had made an impatient gesture. 

“ But why ? ” he had demanded abruptly. “ What’s the 
good of that ? ” 

“ * Why ? ’ . . . Don’t you think I should look charm- 
ing ? ” Berice had sought to rally him. 


326 THE EXCEPTION 

” Oh, hang your looks ! What have they got to do with 
it?” 

” I see. You think, like Everard, that I should make a 
rotten nurse ” 

Bunny had given her a saturnine look of love. 

” Do you really mean with cuffs, and an apron, and 
streamers on your bonnet, and all the rest of it ? ” 

” Oh, the cuffs are * dress ’ — I don't think they wear those 
when there’s work to be done. I’m not sure about the 
streamers, but I think I shall have a red cross on my arm. ...” 

“ Good Lord ! . . .” 

And thereupon, in order that Berice should not take this 
headstrong way faute de mieux, Bunny had stammeringly 
offered her an alternative. 

“ Don’t do that, Berice. Marry me — marry me, dear — 
not now, of course, but later — chuck all this other, and marry 
me ” 

But Berice had shaken her head, gently, but quite seri- 
ously. 

“ Dear Bunny,” she had said, ” I can’t. You must believe 
me when I give that as the reason, toute courte — I can’t. I 
know talking wouldn’t make it any plainer to you. 
Please, dear, spare me, and just take it quite simply 
that I can’t.” 

” What rot ! ” Bunny had broken out, making love after 
methods entirely his own. ...” Don’t be so silly, dear. 
This other’s only a headstrong notion.” 

He had urged her until she had yielded so far as to try to 
explain, and then there had been two of them at logger- 
heads for want of words. It was difficult to make Bunny 
see the things that had such potency over her own soul. . . . 
And then Bunny had begun to hurl reproaches at himself. 

” Is it because I was such a brute to you, Berice ? Oh, 
I was a bear, a self-sufficient idiot ! . . . But I only wanted 
to keep you out of frightful messes, darling — oh, rotten messes ! 
... I know now I ought either to have said more or else 
nothing at all — I ought to have said that I knew all about 
it or else shut up — but I loved you so, even then — I loved 
you so ! ” 


LONDON 


327 

“ Oh, Bunny, don’t bring all that up again ! ” she had 
supplicated. . . . 

“ The opinionated ass I was ! ” 

“ But you were quite right. How I wish I’d listened to you 
instead of pretending not to understand ! . . . And I know 
what you told Murragh Neill too ; oh, I know that in one 
way or another I’ve let everybody in ! I thought nobody 
but myself need know anything ; now it seems to me that 
anybody with eyes might have known everything, any 
time ! ” 

" Oh, if I’d only said everything, and asked you then 1 ” 

Bunny had groaned. 

“ No, no — I really don’t know whether I’d have had you — I 
don’t really think I’d sense enough — I’m nearer now to that 
than ever I was — but there’s something nearer still, Bunny, 
nearer still. ... Oh, if only I could make you see what it 
was ! ” 

“If only you could ! ” Bunny had said, his eyes streaming. 

But she knew, and knew that time would only confirm her 
knowledge, that what she had got out of that hour in Notre 
Dame de la Garde must ever remain incommunicable to 
Bunny. . . . 

It was odd with what security and gaiety she could now 
skim the surface of immeasurable deeps. She could not, 
of course, be present at Mollie’s wedding, a few days before 
Christmas ; but Mollie acted an ingenuousness, which Berice 
demurely took up, and men and weddings and love some- 
times became subjects for jest between the two experienced 
women as if they had been a pair of schoolgirls. Had their 
hearts not been anchored in peace they might have seemed 
merely examples of the rage and resolution to be young that 
sometimes seems the more to increase the more real youth 
slips away ; but it was not that. It is not that any more 
when we have spent our hours in our Notre Dames de la 
Garde. . . . They shared incommunicable things, and it 
made no difference that what the one was accepting the 
other was refusing for ever. 

The hospital Berice had determined to enter as a proba- 
tioner was Guy’s. Twice on preliminary visits Mollie had 


THE EXCEPTION 


328 

accompanied her ; and one day as, on the top of a ’bus, they 
drew near London Bridge, Mollie said suddenly : 

“ But supposing there’ d been that baby to be thought of ? 
You couldn’t have done this then.” 

“ No. But for that matter I couldn’t have done it if I 
myself had left it much longer,” Berice replied. “ I’m within 
a few months of the age limit for probationers as it is. But 
a way always seems to open for us.” 

“ H’m ! I suppose you mean by that that out of a dozen 
impossible ways there’s one that’s just endurable, and 
we take it.” 

” H’m ! ” retorted Berice in her turn ; “ and you just going 
to be married ! . . . Murragh shall hear of this ! . . . And 
by the way, it may be news to your ladyship that I could 
have had your man myself if I’d wanted ! ” 

" What ? — That you never could ! ” Mollie vowed roundly. 

“ Couldn’t I ? How do you know ? ” 

“ How do I know ? How do you think ? I asked him, of 
course.” 

" Wretch ! . . 

“ I did. He came back to London wearying my ears with 
some splendid woman or other he’d met ” 

” Ah ! ” said Berice more quietly. 

“ — and I said he could have his splendid woman for all I 
cared — quite a scene, my dear. Oh, I’ve not told you half 
how curious I was to see you that night at Lady Haver- 
ford’s ! ” 

" I wonder he didn't jump at his chance of getting out of 
it,” Berice remarked. 

“ It was so that he shouldn’t that I offered it,” Mollie 
replied demurely. 

" You outrageous coquette ! . . . But there are still a 
few weeks ” 

" Too late, my dear. He thinks too highly of you-— 
now.” 

“ Now ? . . . Then you’ve ? ” 

“ Yes ; Murragh ; nobody else, of course. You don’t 
mind that ? I didn't want to miss that chance of honouring 
you.” 


LONDON 


329 

“You two dears ! ” murmured Berice with a little rising 
in her throat. 

But Mollie was quick to avoid any too near emotion. ‘'Oh, 
you don’t know a quarter of the things you have to thank 
me for yet,’’ she said as they descended from the ’bus at 
London Bridge. But there was a gentle light in her own 
eyes as they made their way among warehouses to the hospital, 
and they kept that light during the quarter of an hour in 
which she waited for Berice, pacing up and down the loveliest 
courtyard in the City. . . . 

Berice reappeared again, and she advanced to meet her. 

“ Well, have you settled it ? ’’ 

“ Yes. I’m to begin in the New Year.’’ 

“ So soon ? ... Well, the tale ends with a wedding, after 
all — though not with yours,’’ Mollie said as they passed out 
of the gates. . . . 

It may at any rate end with the eve of a wedding. On the 
night before Mollie’s marriage she, Berice, Bunny, and Neill 
supped together at the small house on the north side of 
Kensington Gardens. The entrance hall of Mrs. Enright’s 
house was disfurnished, and trunks and packages stood 
ready to be removed at the Christmas quarter — Neill had 
taken a house and studio in Holland Park. The dining-room, 
however, was untouched, as was Mollie’s bedroom, to which 
she took Berice on her arrival. 

“ It looks like the end, doesn’t it ? ’’ Mollie said as Berice 
removed her wraps. “ These things, too, go to-morrow. A 
lot of care goes with them.’’ 

Berice, remembering what she had heard of Mollie’s pre- 
vious marriage, made no reply. 

“ And you,’’ Mollie continued : “ are you all packed up ? ” 

“ My own things are. The house doesn’t matter so much. 
It was Harry’s, so we’re independent of quarter days. Ev’s 
‘ putting it on the market,’ as he says — I can not get him to 
say ‘ selling it.’ . . . Poor Ev ! Tokenhouse Yard’s his 
Mecca nowadays, for he’s selling Skirethorns, too, our York- 
shire home. He only kept it for me, he says. . . .’’ 

“ Poor uncle ! ’’ Mollie sighed lightly. 

“ Yes. ... It rather solves a difficulty for me, though. 


33 o THE EXCEPTION 

I told you about Ev’s Standard Motor Alarm (it’s exactly like 
a sea-lion barking, my dear). It only needs capital to * de- 
velop it/ he says, and, of course, I did so want to be allowed 
to find the capital— but I know he’d never have let me, and 
as a matter of fact I never mentioned it. So Skirethorns will 
provide it. It’ll go the way of the rest, I suppose ; but it 
doesn’t matter as long as it keeps him happy. The Beck- 
withs have no heads for money.” 

" They’ve very good heads for getting rid of it, to judge 
from that wonderful dessert service you’ve given Murragh 
and me.” 

“ Oh, that ! . . . But that’s not really your wedding 
present ; that’s only to glitter among your other things. I 
should like to give you something else. Come here ” 

Mollie was arranging a scarf about her shoulders. For a 
moment Berice helped her in the draping of it. When she 
removed her hands again the scarf was secured in its place 
with a plain gold safety-pin. 

“ I told you what it was,” said Berice, her eyes on her 
friend’s. " Will you have it ? . . 

A few minutes later they had descended to supper. Berice 
sat at the little square table facing Mollie ; Bunny was on her 
right, Neill on her left. Bunny either did not see or did not 
remember the little gold fastening that glinted in the candle- 
light at Mollie’s breast, but Neill did, and glanced once 
towards Berice and quickly away again. It was a year and 
a half since he had seen that same pin at Berice’s own throat, 
in the painting cottage on Cotterdale Moor — when he had so 
honoured her for her supposed resolution to take up her life 
again with all its pains and pangs and rubs and responsibilities. 
... Yes, he had honoured her then that she did not intend 
to stand off from the world and its affairs ; why, then, she 
wondered, did his eyes now honour her past all telling, in 
the very moment when she had renounced for ever so many 
human ties and was about to take upon herself a secular 
retirement ? If she had been so to be honoured before, why 
this homage now ? . . . She wondered, and by and by sought 
Neill’s eyes. 

" Why ? . . .” 


LONDON 


33i 

The question was, in fact, unspoken — looked only, and 
at one and the same moment she tingled with apprehension 
lest he should not understand, and thrilled with the certainty 
that he would. " Why ? . . .” came the look again. 

He did understand. Her eyes, blue and tranquil, were on 
his, large and dark and reverent in his high-bred, hound-like 
face. Then he inclined his head slightly towards her. 

'‘You know what I thought you were ? ” he murmured in a 
voice that none but she heard. 

She nodded. “ Yes.” 

Once more he lifted his eyes. They were as the eyes of a 
sweet boy are who is permitted to kiss a hand. 

" It's true now, at any rate,” he whispered back. “ You 
are magnificent. . . .” 

And as there came across the table a request from Mollie 
to be told what they were talking about, they laughed, but 
did not tell her, and the supper continued. 


FRINTED BY 

WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD* 
PLYMOUTH 


HARMEN POLS 


BY 

MAARTEN MAARTENS 


Cloth. 12mo. $1.35 net. Postage 12 cents. 


‘ ‘ Far and away the most satisfactory story we have had 
from this Dutch writer. In fact, we have not read any story 
by any one in some time that makes a stronger impression. 

A tale of real merit and strong interest. ’ ’ 

— New York Globe and Commercial Advertiser. 

“The book is a great picture of life, done in the very 
spirit that shaped the whole Dutch school of art. ’ ’ 

— Washington Evening Star, 

“Mr. Maartens’ description of events is fascinating and 
interesting, and goes to make up one of the best novels of 
recent issue. ” — Detroit News. 

“A powerful story. One of the finest bits of fiction of 
recent issue/ * — Buffalo Courier. 

“The reality of the book fairly grips the reader. The 
power of the story is no less marked than its fidelity to fact, 
and it is a triumph of artistic characterization.” — The Dial. 


THE COMPLETE WORKS 

OF 

WILLIAM J. LOCKE 

“Life is a glorious thing.** — W. J. Locke 

“If you wish to be lifted out of the petty cares of to-day, read one 
of Locke’s novels. You may select any from the following titles 
and be certain of meeting some new and delightful friends. His 
characters are worth knowing. ’ ’ — Baltimore Sun . 

The Morals of Marcus Ordeyae The Demagogue and Lady Phayre 

At the Gate of Samaria The Beloved Vagabond 

A Study in Shadows The White Dove 

Simon the Jester The Usurper 

Where Love Is Septimus 

Derelicts Idols 

The Glory of Clementina 

12mo. Cloth. $1.50 each 

Thirteen volumes bound in green cloth. Uniform edition in box. 
$19.00 per set. Half Morocco $50.00 net. Express prepaid. 

Simon the Jester 

(Profusely illustrated by James Montgomery Flagg) 

“It has all the charm and surprise of his famous ‘Simple Septimus.* 
It is a novel full of wit and action and life. The characters are all 
out-of-the-ordinary and splendidly depicted; and the end is an 
artistic triumph — a fitting climax for a story that’s full of charm 
and surprise. ” — American Magazine. 

The Beloved Vagabond 

“ ‘The Beloved Vagabond* is a gently-written, fascinating tale. 
Make his acquaintance some dreary, rain-soaked evening and find 
the vagabond nerve-thrilling in your own heart. ” 

— Chicago Record-Herald. 

Septimus (Illustrated by James Montgomery Flagg) 

“Septimus is the joy of the year.” — American Magazine. 

The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne 

“One of those rare and much-to-be-desired stories which keep one 
divided between an interested impatience to get on and an irresis- 
tible temptation to linger for full enjoyment by the way. ’ ’ — Life. 

Where Love Is 

‘ ‘ One of those unusual novels of which the end is as good as the 
beginning.” — Ne<w York Globe. 


*> 


WILLIAM J. LOCKE 

The Usurper 

44 Contains the hall-mark of genius itself. The plot is masterly in 
conception, the descriptions are all vivid flashes from a brilliant 
pen. It is impossible to read and not marvel at the skilled work- 
manship and the constant dramatic intensity of the incident, situ- 
ations and climax,” — The Boston Herald, 

Derelicts 

41 Mr. Locke tells his story in a very true, a very moving, and a 
very noble book. If any one can read the last chapter with dry 
eyes we shall be surprised. 4 Derelicts * is an impressive, an im- 
portant book. Yvonne is a creation that any artist might be proud 
of.” — The Daily Chronicle . 

Idols 

44 One of the very few distinguished novels of this present book 
season.” — The Daily Mail . 

44 A brilliantly written and eminently readable book.” 

— The London Daily Telegraph. 

A Study in Shadows 

44 Mr. Locke has achieved a distinct success in this novel. He has 
struck many emotional chords, and struck them all with a firm, 
sure hand. In the relations between Katherine and Raine he had 
a delicate problem to handle, and he has handled it delicately.” 

— The Daily Chronicle. 

The White Dove 

44 It is an interesting story. The characters are strongly conceived 
and vividly presented, and the dramatic moments are powerfully 
realized.” — The Morning Post, 

The Demagogue and Lady Phayre 

44 Think of Locke’s clever books. Then think of a book as differ- 
ent from any of these as one can well imagine — that will be Mr. 
Locke’s new book.” — New York World. 

At the Gate of Samaria 

44 William J. Locke’s novels are nothing if not unusual. They are 
marked by a quaint originality. The habitual novel reader inevi- 
tably is grateful for a refreshing sense of escaping the common- 
place path of conclusion.” — Chicago Record-Herald . 


DOLF WYLLARDE 

12mo . $1.50 each 

“Dolf Wyllarde sees life with clear eyes and puts down what she 
sees with a fearless pen. . . . More than a little of the flavor 

of Kipline: in the good old days of Plain Tales from the Hills.” 

— Neuj York Globe. 


Mafoota 

A Romance of Jamaica 

“The plot has a resemblance to that of Wilkie Collins’ ‘The New 
Magdalen,* but the heroine is a Puritan of the strictest type; the 
subject matter is like ‘The Helpmate.’” — Springfield Republican. 

As Ye Have Sown 

“A brilliant story dealing with the world of fashion.” 

Captain Amyas 

“Masterly.” — San Francisco Examiner . 

“Startlingly plain-spoken.” — Louisville Courier- Journal . 

The Rat Trap 

“The literary sensation of the year.” — Philadelphia Item. 

The Story of Eden 

“Bold and outspoken, a startling book.” — Chicago Record-Herald. 
“A real feeling of brilliant sunshine and exhilarating air.” 

— Spectator. 

Rose- White Youth 

*** The love-story of a young girl. 

The Pathway of the Pioneer 

*** The story of seven girls who have banded themselves together 
for mutual help and cheer under the name of “Nous Autres.” 
They represent, collectively, the professions open to women of no 
deliberate training, though well-educated. They are introduced to 
the reader at one of their weekly gatherings and then the author 
proceeds to depict the home and business life of each one individ- 
ually. 

Tropical Tales 

*** A collection of short stories dealing with ‘ ‘all sorts and con- 
ditions” of men and women in all classes of life ; some of the 
tales sounding the note of joy and happiness; others portraying the 
pathetic, and even the shady side of life ; all written in the interest- 
ing manner characteristic of the author. 

The Riding Master. Cloth. 12mo. $1.50 



An American Love-Story 

MARGARITA’S SOUL 

BY 

JOSEPHINE DASKAM BACON 

[INGRAHAM LOVELL] 

Profusely Illustrated. Sixteen full-page half-tone illustrations. 
Numerous line cuts, reproduced from drawings by J. Scott 
Williams. Also Whistler Butterfly Decorations. 

Cloth. 12mo. $1.50 

“Filled with imaginative touches, resourceful, intelligent 
and amusing. An ingenious plot that keeps the interest sus- 
pended until the end, and has a quick and shrewd sense of 
humor.” — Boston Transcript. 

“A reviewer would hesitate to say how long it is since a 
writer gave us so beautiful, so naive, so strangely brought up 
and introduced, a heroine. It is to be hoped that the author 
is already at work on another novel. * * — - Toronto Globe. 

“May cause the reader to miss an important engagement 
or neglect his business. A love story of sweetness and purity 
touched with the mythical light of Romance and aglow with 
poetry and tenderness. One of the most enchanting creatures 
in modern fiction.” — San Francisco Bulletin. 

“It is extremely entertaining from start to finish, and 
there are most delightful chapters of description and romantic 
scenes which hold one positively charmed by their beauty and 
unusualness. ’ * — Boston Herald. 

‘ ‘ Sentimental, with the wholesome, pleasing sentimentality 
of the old bachelor who has not turned crusty. . . A Thack- 
erayan touch.” — New York Tribune . 

‘ ‘ Captures the imagination at the outset by the boldness 
of the situation. . . We should be hard put to it to name a 
better American novel of the month.” — The Outlook. 


ANATOLE FRANCE 


“Anatole France is a writer whose personality is very strongly re- 
flected in his works. ... To reproduce his evanescent grace 
and charm is not to be lightly achieved, but the translators have 
done their work with care, distinction, and a very happy sense of 
the value of words .” — Daily Graphic . 

“We must now all read all of Anatole France. The offer is too 
good to be shirked. He is just Anatole France, the greatest 
living writer of French.” — Daily Chronicle . 

Complete Limited Edition in English 


Under the general editorship of Frederic Chapman. 
8vo., special light-weight paper, wide margins, Caslon 
type, bound in red and gold, gilt top, end papers from 
designs by Beardsley, initials by Ospovat. $ 2.00 per 
volume (except John of Arc) , postpaid. 


Balthasar 

The Well of St. Clare 
The Red Lily 
Mother of Pearl > 

The Crime of 
Sylvestre Bonnard 
The Garden of Epicurus 
Thai's 

The Merrie Tales of 
Jacques Tournebroche 
Joan of Arc. Two volumes. 

$8 net per set. Postage extra. 
The Comedian’s Tragedy 
The Amethyst Ring 
M. Bergeret in Paris 
Life and Letters (4 vols.) 


Pierre Noziere 
The White Stone 
Penguin Island 
The Opinions of 
Jerome Coignard 
Jocasta and 
the Famished Cat 
The Aspirations of 
Jean Servien 
The Elm Tree on 
the Mall 

My Friend’s Book 
The Wicker- 
Work Woman 
At the Sign of 
the Queen Pedauque 
Profitable Tales 


GILBERT K. CHESTERTON 

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“Always original. ” — Chicago Tribune. 

Heretics 12mo. $1.50 net. Postage 12 cents 

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— Chicago Record-Herald . 

Orthodoxy. Uniform with “ Heretics.’ ’ 

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All Things Considered 

Cloth. 12mo. $1.50 net. Postage 12 cents 

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George Bernard Shaw. A Biography 

Cloth. 12mo. $1.50 net. Postage 12 cents 

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painter’s model.” — George Bernard Shaw in The Nation (London). 

The Napoleon of Notting Hill. A Romance. With 
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Cloth. 12mo. $1.50 

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Every page is pregnant with vitality.” — Boston Herald. 


The Ball and the Cross Cloth. 12mo. $1.50 

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studded with intellectual brilliants. Its satire is keener than that of 
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point of view the reader may choose to regard it. ’ ’ 

— San Francisco Bulletin. 


EDEN PHILLPOTTS 


The Thief of Virtue cloth. i2mo. fi.so 

“If living characters, perfect plot construction, imaginative breadth 
of canvas and absolute truth to life are the primary qualities of great 
realistic fiction, Mr. Phillpotts is one of the greatest novelists of the 
day. . . . He goes on turning out one brilliant novel after 

another, steadily accomplishing for Devon what Mr. Hardy did for 
Wessex. This is another of Mr. Phillpotts 1 Dartmoor novels, and 
one that will rank with his best. . . Something of kinship with 

‘King Lear 1 and ‘ Pere Goriot. 1 11 Chicago Record Herald. 

“The Balzac of Dartmore. It is easy and true to say that Mr. 
Phillpotts in all his work has done no single piece of portraiture 
better than this presentation of Philip Ouldsbroom. . . A triumph 

of the novelist’s understanding and keen drawing. . . A Dart- 

moor background described in terms of an artist’s deeply felt 
appreciation. — New York World. 

“No other English writer has painted such facinating and colorful 
word-pictures of Dartmoor’s heaths and hills, woods and vales, and 
billowy plains of pallid yellow and dim green. Few others have 
attempted such vivid character-portrayal as marks this latest work 
from beginning to end.” The North American. 

“A strong book, flashing here and there with beautiful gems of 
poetry. . . Providing endless food for thought. . . An in- 
tellectual treat. ” — London Evening Standard. 


The Haven cloth. i2mo. $1.50 

“The foremost English novelist with the one exception of Thomas 
Hardy. . . His descriptions of the sea and his characterization 

of the fisher folks are picturesqne, true to life, full of humorous 
philosophy.” — JeannetieL. Gilder, in The Chicago Tribune. 

“ It is no dry bones of a chronicle, but touched by genius to life 
and vividness. ” — Louisville , Kentucky , Post. 

“A close, thoughtful study of universal human nature.” 

— The Outlook. 

“ One of the best of this author’s many works.” — The Bookman. 



MAUD DIVER 

A TRILOGY OF ANGLO-INDIAN 
ARMY LIFE 

New York Times: “Above the multitude of novels (erotic and 
neurotic) hers shine like stars. She has produced a comprehensive 
and full drama of life, rich in humanity; noble, satisfying — it is not too 
much to say great. ” 

(New Editions) 

CANDLES IN THE WIND 
CAPTAIN DESMOND, V. C, 

THE GREAT AMULET 

Cloth . J2m0. $1.30 each 

The Argonaut (San Francisco): “We doubt if any other writer 
gives us so composite and convincing a picture of that curious mixture 
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life of the country from many standpoints, giving us the idea of a store- 
house of experience so well stocked that incidents can be selected with 
a fastidious and dainty care.” 

London Morning Post: “ Vigor of characterization accompanied by 
an admirable terseness and simplicity of expression.** 

Literary World: 44 Undoubtedly some of the finest novels that 
Indian life has produced.” 

London Telegraph: 44 Some sincere pictures of Indian life which are 
as real and convincing as any which have entered into the pages of 
fiction.” 

The Chicago Tribune: 44 The characterization is excellent and her 
presentation of frontier life and of social conditions produces a strong 
impression of truth.” 

Boston Evening Transcript: 44 Knows absolutely the life that she 
depicts. Her characters are excellently portrayed.” 

Chicago Record Herald: 44 Well told; the humanization good and 
the Indian atmosphere, always dramatic, is effectively depicted. Holds 
the attention without a break.” 

Toronto Mail: 44 Real imagination, force, and power. Rudyard 
Kipling and imitators have shown us the sordid side of this social life. 
It remains for Mrs. Diver to depict tender-hearted men and brave, true 
women. Her work is illuminated by flashes of spiritual insight that 
one longs to hold in memory.” 


CHARLES MARRIOTT 


The Intruding Angel cloth. l2mo. $1.50. 

The story of a mistaken marriage, and the final solution of the 
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When a Woman Woos cloth. l2mo. $1.50. 

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men and women in the particular institution of marriage. It is 
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decidedly what it is not. Full of the material of life. ” 

— Ne< zv York Times Book Review. 


A Spanish Holiday 

Illustrated. Cloth. 8vo. $2.50 net. Postage 20 cents. 

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NETTA SYRETT 

Olivia L. Carew cloth. i 2 mo. $1.50 

An interesting character study of a passionless, self-absorbed woman 
humanized by the influence of a man’s love and loyal devotion. 

Anne Page. A Love-story of To-day Cloth. 12mo. $1.50 

“Readers must judge for themselves. Women may read it for 
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straight and narrow way.” — New York Times. 

Six Fairy Plays for Children 

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A. NEIL LYONS 


ROBERT BLATCHFORD 

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An Estimate of Some Achievement. 

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A Country Spread. A Novel. 

Sixpenny Pieces cloth. i2mo. $1.50. 

The Story of a Sixpenny Doctor 

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will make many think.” — Chicago Record Herald. 

“Unique in style and matter and intense in human interest.” — 
Louisville Courier Journal. 

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Slum life has never been better portrayed.” — Brooklyn Eagle. 

Arthur’s Hotel cloth. i2mo. $1.50. 

“ Sketches of low life in London. The book will delight visitors 
to the slums .” — Neva York Sun . 


Hi 


M. P. WILLCOCKS 


The Way Up cloth, lima. $1.50 

The Romance of an Ironmaster Touching Three Vital Questions 

(a) Capital and Labor. 

(b) The Claims of the Individual Against Those of the State. 

(c) The Right of a Woman to Her Own Individuality. 

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‘The Way Up* this writer crystallizes a tense and telling problem. 
The book is earnest enough for the most serious of readers, yet 
never dull or dreary. The humanization is admirable.” — Chicago 
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“ Miss Willcocks shows the wit of Barrie in close alliance with the 
bold realism of Thomas Hardy and the philosophic touches of 
George Meredith. ” — Literary Worlds London. 

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New York Sun. 

“Such books are worth keeping on the shelves, even by the classics, 
for they are painted in colors which do not fade.” — London Times. 

The Wingless Victory cloth. l2mo. $1.50 

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“It is an excellent thing for any reader to come across this book.” 
— Standard. 

“A splendid book.” — Tribune. 

A Man of Genius cloth. i2mo. $1.50 

“Far above the general level of contemporary fiction. A work of 
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Widdicombe 

A Romance of the Devonshire Moors 


Cloth. 12 mo. $1.50 


MAUDE ANNESLEY 


The Wine of Life Cloth, 12mo, $1.50 

“The story is well worth reading; it is never dull and 
is positively superior in the distinctness of its character 
portraiture to the common run of drawing-room fiction. ’ ’ 
— Charleston News and Courier 


The Door of Darkness Cloth , 12mo, $1.50 

* ‘ A story of great interest. ’ ’ — Newark Evening News. 
“Thoroughly absorbing. . . . A subtle psychological 
situation/’ — Providence Journal. 

Wind Along the Waste Cloth , 12mo, $1.50 

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The whole conception is so forcible that one can hardly 
get on fast enough. ’ ’ — Pall Mall Gazette. 

Shadow-Shapes Cloth , 12mo, $1. 30 net . Postage 12 cents 

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. . . The absorbing drama grows in interest with every 
page, the sense of impending tragedy is always with us. 
It is well and cleverly done.” — Pall Mall Gazette. 


MY ENEMY— THE MOTOR 

BY 

JULIAN STREET 


Illustrated. Cloth. 16mo. 50 cents net. Postage 6 cents. 


“Will supply all normal readers, motor enthusiasts or 
otherwise, with cause fq^ chuckling during a good half-hour. * ’ 

— Chicago Record- Herald. 

“ Mr. Street’s style is lively and vivacious.” 

— Boston Transcript. 

“In the manner of Jerome K. Jerome and may be 
heartily commended.” — New York Globe. 

“The humor of Julian Street first became known by 
the publication of the clever little story ‘ My Enemy — the 
Motor.’ ” — The Boston Herald. 

“More acceptable than the ordinary run of novels 
because it is more amusing, less pretentious and not so long. 
About as long as the ordinary novel might be if only novelists 
would omit superfluities. Just the right length.” 

— N. Y. Evening Sun. 


THE NEED OF CHANGE 


BY 

JULIAN STREET 

Illustrated. Cloth . 16mo. SO cents net. Postage 6 cents . 

“A sketch too good to miss. Deliciously humorous.” 

— Baltimore Sun. 

“Delightful. Jovial and joyous as a fat man’s hearty 
laugh. ’ ’ — Chicago Record-Herald. 

“A brilliant story, sympathetically illustrated.” 

— New York American. 

“Fortify yourself when you start the story. If you 
don’t, you may disturb the passengers by laughing right out 
loud.” — San Francisco Bulletin. 

‘ ‘ Many laughs between the covers. The story is told 
with spirit and a constant sense of humor.” 

— New York Saturday Review of Books. 

“Now and again you have the extreme luck to run 
across a book that is really FUNNY. Not the machine- 
made, madly-advertised type. ‘The Need of Change’ is 
the kind that usually you pick up by accident, start to run 
through casually, find yourself .startled into a chuckle by some 
unexpected humorous line, and end by reading every word 
with zest and hustling around to loan it to your friends. . . 
Keeps the reader in one continuous howl; the fun never 
becomes forced. A gem ! ’ ’ — Philadelphia Item. 


THE HICKORY LIMB 


PARKER H. FILLMORE 

Illustrated. Cloth. 16mo. 50 cents net. Postage 6 cents. 

“ ‘The Hickory Limb* is a remarkable story, which I 
have enjoyed, appreciated, and admired. It displays a 
knowledge of human nature, tenderness and humor.” 

— Charles Battell Loomis. 

“A true and amusing picture of child life.” 

— Louisville Courier- Journal. 

‘ * The little heroine and all the children are capital. * * 

— New York Sun. 

“A charming companion to popular ‘Alice in Wonder- 
land.’ ” — Chicago Record-Herald. 

“ One of the most relishable pieces of humor evolved 
in some time.” — Albany Argus. 

“We do not recall having seen any more striking 
evidence of the arrival of an age of social experimentation 
tiban little Margery’s rebellion.” — Chicago Evening Post. 

‘ ‘A dainty idyl, full of charm. Should prove a classic. ’ * 

— Cincinnati Enquirer. 

“Powerful in its subtle analysis of childhood philosophy.” 

— Rochester Union and Advertiser. 

“A most delightful story. . . . Let Mr. Fillmore go 
on writing other stories like ‘ The Hickory Limb.’ ” 

— Toronto News. 

“An hour of amusement, a series of laughs from the 
heart out, and a pleasant vista backward to the days of child- 
hood will come to the reader of ‘The Hickory Limb.’ ” 

— Cincinnati Tribune. 


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